#ignore how much i fucked up the union jack.......

[lact101]

Sv and swsh doodles becuz I was feeling silly

[faeflowerz]

Happy Birthday Riddle Rosehearts 🌹🌹🌹

No, I'm not late. I didn’t get caught up in Enstars. I didn’t forget to write this. I am also ignoring the characters I missed until their birthdays roll around again. also am not upset that i don't have his first bday outfit. Got his union thoooo ayyyy~

So I already knew I would love Riddle when I started playing. I'm not even a Wonderland fan (Neverland all the way babeyyy) but that lil tomato makes me tingly inside. What can I say? He's small in size but big in taste! 

And have yall seen prototype!Riddle??? Uhm?!?!? Hello?!?!?!?! Can I have both?!?!?!?

Let's get to it. 

So what has changed about the tiny tyrant? He was the first chapter and he ushered in the series with his Mommy issues. He's the best foot forward. I'm serious. Chapter 1 is solid compared to the others. It's my favorite chapter (1,6,3,4,5,2) and everyone sets the setting well. 

I think he's also up there on the most substantial change in characterization. While he's still got a stick in his ass, it's not as deep. He's showing more of his empathetic side and putting forth patience that the QOH isn't known for. A good queen must be fierce, but she also is fair in her deliverance of justice. She tends to her subjects and holds them to reasonable standards. Well, I at least think so. He's a palatable leader. 

Something I've started to notice about Riddle is that he's naive. But his naivety also gives him courage? While he has been sheltered most of his life, Riddle is sure of his skills. He's willing to fight Malleus if the fairy ever tries to come for his spot. Now, if he would win is not the point. The fact that this little boy is willing to say it to Mal on his birthday speaks volumes. He would probably lose if he challenged him as is. That's his naivety/confidence. Now, if it was like, after a year or something, he would go down swinging for sure. That's his talent and skill. He's also interested in the duel being a learning experience which is a mature way of viewing a dorm leader battle. I would say every battle is an exp but the stakes are meaningful in a leader duel. 

Speaking of which, it's cute that he would go there. Sure, it's to balance out the other picks, but Riddle would flourish in Diasomnia. He's packing a lot of power despite his size and if he learned how to keep his temper on lock, god. He'd be a big deal. Also he's good at fire magic for some reason like, is he an arsonist in training? Also the rose thorn motif on him sounds kinda hot. His OB uses thorns soooo.

Uhm, let's talk about his pick for a brother. 

You know…he's probably hiding the real reason why he wants Jade. Think about it. Riddle is the one who told Trey how Jade controls everything. Riddle shares a homeroom with Jade. He experiences him as much as he sees Silver and Sebek (maybe more depending on when they meet for clubs). He's right that Jade is seemingly polite and seemingly compliant with rules and shit. He's surreptitious with his power. That's what makes him efficient and dangerous. Riddle wants someone like that on his side. That's what he's not telling Azul. Hell, Riddle even admits that he's not fond of Jade's other traits.

As his younger brother amuses me too. His naivety is at work. I'm an only child but younger siblings won't always listen to you. Jade's too independent for any of that. He could probably be a better big brother since he steps back when he knows someone's gotta learn a lesson. Jade gently tried to offer to nip the Leona issue in the bud in chap 3. Azul foolishly barreled forward with his plans regardless. Azul fucked up and Jade knew it. So he let his bestie learn. So in Riddle's case, Jade would be a better older brother than little (bc Jade will deprogram his naivety). But I think he's got a better option for a little brother: Epel.

I was torn between him or Jack but I think Epel could benefit from Riddle's brand of micromanagement. Vil is strict, but Epel doesn't listen to Vil bc as we saw in chap 5, he was out to fix Epel. Vil does care and wants Epel to grow but the ulterior motives muddied their relationship. With Riddle, they both get to have a brother. Plus, size matters. A lot. Riddle, as I said before, is small but a powerhouse. From their interactions and voice lines, they seem fond of each other. Riddle is firm and he will get Epel to show more formality and respect but since he's the same height as him, Epel will be more receptive to what he has to say. And notice how Riddle always tells people to speak loudly and be 💯 instead of mumbling? That trait needs to be preserved in Epel. 

Riddle wants to do good and be a good mentor to his peers (imma talk about his career goals in a sec) so if Epel were to be taken under his wing, they would be fond of each other while also seeing Epel reach new heights that wouldn't be impeded by negative relationships. Plus Riddle is a little feminine (bc he emulates a queen too) so Epel will still unlearn toxic masculinity. 

Okay, so Riddle wants to be a doctor. A doctor. That's…unexpected. Well, not entirely. He has a classic doctor tiger mom (more on that later I promise) so I can see this being a "carry the legacy" type of thing. But as we can see, Riddle is clearly great with students. 

In his element, Riddle can educate upperclassmen as well as underclassmen. He's extremely smart and I think helping people in an educational setting is significantly more beneficial to his potential. Professor Rosehearts sounds super hot. He's firm yet gentle, and when he asks you to see him after class, you've got butterflies. He's handsome and when he talks, you're hooked on every word. You know he's scolding you for being so scatterbrained and distracted, but you can't help it. You're in love with him even though you know he wouldn't regret it if he would just take you and pin you to his desk-

So Riddle's mom is pretty…rough. I see people making jokes about her, usually projecting their own mama onto her. I personally think Riddle's mom wanted him, as in, he was a planned pregnancy. It only makes sense that they would only want one and then go to painstaking lengths to raise him "right". But unfortunately parenting is trial and error. I'm curious about how their family life has changed since he’s around other kids. I'm assuming he was homeschooled? Do we have any information on that? Anyway, school is usually when kids start finding their own identity and I wish we could get updates on how the OB gang is doing in specific areas where they were struggling. Since Twst is overloaded with characters, you gotta do your research on them rather than get main story satisfaction. 

So what do I want for Riddle going forward? I unno, he's perfect. And I stand behind that. He's working on himself and that's all I can ask for any of these characters. Each of them are sentimental to somebody in the fandom and as long as they continue to mature and develop through the series, I'm content. So to round out the last of the birthdays with the one who started it all,

Happy Birthday, Riddle! ❤🌹

[dreamsmp-au-ideas]

Hey guys, remember the Purpled, Foolish, Fundy, and Slimecicle Found Family thing we made a bit back? Well I had came up with the great idea of deciding to make an au that is centric to those guys and in a modern world.

So the basic gist is that those four are still working for Quackity but it’s already been long term and they’re done. The pay is shit, the hours are shit, the benefits are mediocore at best, and they had just went and are about to organize a union for better working hors and pay.

Quackity of course is a dick and just puts more hours and even less pay on them and man oh man murder is looking very promising right now.

This of course, angers all of them. Slime is a bit chill with this but everyone is pretty sure that Slime is some sort of weird cyrptid so that’s normal and in a bit of uncontrolled anger, Foolish or Purpled may have went and said that they wished that Quackity would just drop dead, just so they can at least have a better boss or something.

The very next day they unfortunately had to go to work, because they have apartments and they need to pay rent.

And then they go into the office for...various reasons. Some involving murder... and uh...oh would you look at that. Quackity is dead and has been stabbed. Oh. Okay then.

Oh god wait Charlie please don’t play with the knife. Charlie no you might hurt yourself with that, oh god wait shit, how are we going to get our pay checks? Shit okay, let’s just steal the money from his safe. And the cameras are on. Fuck.

So now the four of them has been framed for murder and has also accidentally escalated that. Now they’re trying to clear their name and also finding out more about their shitty boss. And they’re also trying to go find a new place to work because man they need to still pay rent.

(More stuff below)

Featuring:

-Fundy, a sleep-deprived coder of Quackity’s site and other programs

-Charlie Slimecile. Who is simply just Charlie Slimecicle

-Foolish, an architect and builder who is done with Quackity’s shit and is tempted to murder him

-Purpled, an intern who applied for Marketing and Real Estate for Las Nevadas and instead is thrown into the bouncer part of the job and planning on committing brutal pipe murder on Quackity. He wouldn’t have hesitated and he is just so dissapointed that he couldn’t do it first

-Purpled, Foolish, Fundy, and Slime all being one found family and caring for each other as they go and try to solve who killed Quackity

-There is underlying plot that Quackity was a good person but a series of events kind of made him jaded and shit. This does not go and earn forgiveness for his behavior from the four of them and that is extremely understandable

-Quackity having a drug empire

-Wilbur also being apart of the drug empire

-The four of them just being confused on how Fundy’s dad got into Quackity’s drug empire

-And then they go and realize that it wasn’t the only thing he got into

-Fundy is disgusted by this. HIs dad and his shitty ex boss were having homoerotic tensions with each other

-Karl and Sapnap knowing about this and casually dropping that Wilbur is apart of the polycule

-Fundy is now even more disgusted and in pain from this

-The Eggpire is a rival Drug Empire but it’s debatable on how much the staff wants to work here. They just wanted their paycheck and now they’re in Drug wars

(Purpled: Punz!? What the fuck? You work here!?

Punz: Hell no. I just wanted my paycheck and I accidentally got roped into this)

-Dream murdered Quackity because of him putting some blackmail and some stalker-ish things in his mailbox so uh...he murdered him. He isn’t much of a dick here as DSMP was but he still isn’t the nicest guy around

-Foolish, Charlie, Fundy, and Purpled all accidentally tampered with the crime scene and did the following:

-Purpled stole a gun from Quackity’s drawer

-Charlie touched the murder weapon and glooped and erased the fingerprints right off the knife

-Fundy tripped over the body and slightly moved it so he won’t trip on it as much

-Foolish went and may have went and moved all their hours to more reasonable times

-And all of them went and fucking stole a shit ton of money from Quackity’s safe

-Then they forgot to fucking turn off the cameras and now they have framed themselves for murder

-Sometimes they just forget that Quackity is dead. They just forget for a bit and then after while they think, Oh yeah. My boss is dead. Right. That happened.

-The family tree honestly is fucked and somehow everyone is related to Quackiy in some way. No one is spared. The timeline is fucked and everyone is somehow related to Quackity in the most cursed way possible. Foolish, Fundy, Purpled, and Charlie are trying to wrap their heads around this bullshit. Jack, Techno, and Tommy are spared from the family tree bullshit and do not interact with it at all for fear of being sucked into it

-To go and explain it in the best way possible, Charlie and Fundy are technically brothers because Quackity semi-adopted Slimecicle, Quackity and Purpled are also technically brothers because Sam Nook is technically Sam’s other child and Punz is dating him, Foolish and Fundy are ex-brothers because Fundy dated Dream and then broke up with him after the whole “left him at the alter” thing, and Quackity is technically Fundy’s step-dad because Wilbur joined the polycule

-The four of them pointedly ignore this

[i-dont-want-your-hysteria]

The Hangover (Def Leppard x Reader)

(Happy birthday to my blog!! To celebrate 3 years of the place where I concentrate my insane Leppard obsession, I thought I’d celebrate by posting the FIRST Def Leppard fanfic I EVER wrote ((which I have NEVER posted anywhere before!)) I began writing this exactly 3 years ago today- the day I made this blog ((February 19th, 2018))- and officially finished it about a year later. This is not intended as a romantic/sexual fic, it’s simply just an x reader in which the reader is basically one of the guys. In other words, it’s on crack.)

((I am aware this is kind of cringe-worthy at times... but I still like a lot of things about it. While I revised it very slightly before queuing it,  I was still 16 when I started writing this, okay... gimme a break...))

(Illustration by @paper-sxn​)

Words: 8,684 Prompt: Dublin, 1984. You’re with the Leppards in their early pre-Hysteria era house. You all wake up with hangovers after a boozed-up night at home, and you each try to put the pieces of the previous night back together. Meanwhile, you’re praying that one particular piece won’t fit in anywhere... (partially inspired by the “Blitzgiving” and “The Pineapple Incident” episodes of How I Met Your Mother)

-----

Gently piercing white light made its way through the windows of the bedroom. It hit your eyelids, and it hit your brain, igniting a brief but killer headache. As your eyes clasped together more, you turned your face into the gloriously soft pillow. For a second you asked yourself why you would have a headache so early in the morning, but then…

You laughed quietly into the bed, recalling without warning some vague happenings from the night before. There wasn’t much you remembered, but you clearly saw the image of the guys flat out drunk at some point (you along with them). There were some blips of you all singing together, Sav hanging from a door frame, you chugging some scotch, Joe chugging some vodka, Steve’s hair being in pigtails, and you think Phil might’ve been giving you a lap dance... or vice versa. It was, all in all, hysterical (at least- that’s what you wanted to think).

 Other than those faint events, unfortunately, the night was gone. Still, you were thrilled that it happened. Crazy times with your boys were always good.

You rubbed your eyes, ready for more sleep to combat the pounding in your head. When you did, they opened a little, and you realized… this wasn't your room you were in. Squinting around, you noticed that you were sleeping in Phil’s room instead of yours.

Oh, it’s not that much of a problem, you mused, I’m sure he doesn’t mind. I’ve woken up to worse in this place.

You let your eyes close again easily, and you found peace as you began to fall under again. That is, until you felt someone move next to you.

When it happened, you became aware of the warmth coming from someone else in the bed. They only shifted in their sleep a little bit before going still again. Your eyes went wide, and you held your breath. You don’t remember getting into bed with someone (in fact, you don’t remember getting into bed at all). Turning your head, you looked to see what sort of stranger was in bed with you currently. Instead of a stranger, scraggly blonde hair over a kind and shy face met your sight, and you were instantly calmed upon realizing that it was just Steve. That was good, that was good, but why were you and Steve sleeping in Phil’s bed? You were sure you didn’t have sex last night- at least, not with Steve. This tiny moment of appeasement and confusion was cut short by the faint sound of guitar chords coming from downstairs. The music echoed to your ears, signaling that it had to be Phil, and that he was playing the opening to Bringin On the Heartbreak. Cautiously taking the covers off you- not wanting to wake Steve- you felt obliged to go to the other guitarist. When you stood up and began walking, you nearly fell forward from the sudden vertigo of your hangover. You had to hold onto the counter of Phil’s dresser for extra support, and that’s when your reflection in his mirror caught your eye. Not only that, but that’s when your outfit also caught your eye. One of the guys’ Union Jack tank tops had been slipped over you somehow, and two hand prints were on either side of your face in dried paint; one was blue, one was green. "What…?“ you whispered, touching your face and feeling the shirt on you. It seemed to fit you alright, which made you wonder whose it really was. You were also in black underwear, and nothing else. While eyeing yourself, you took notice of Steve in the reflection. You now saw a few big red lipstick stains on his face, untouched and unsmudged. It was pretty cute, you had to admit, but another thing that came to your attention was that it wasn’t you who was wearing the lipstick at the moment. So then who kissed Steve all over his face? You treaded carefully down the hallway, putting one foot in front of the other and dragging a hand on the wall for support. The melody of the distant guitar didn’t cease the whole time you trekked through the house to get to Phil. When the chords of the song dragged on to the part where the vocals should have begun, no vocals came. Everything in the house looked remarkably the same (despite everything you remember from last night). There were large, ripped pieces of cardboard in the middle of the hallway;  scattered out as if leaving a trail. Alongside that, there was a piece of paper labeled “pay 2 the orerr of Rick: one fuckin bendee straw” in what may have been Sav’s handwriting on top of the stairs, and blue paint smudged on the railing going downwards (guaranteeing that whoever did that eventually got to your face, too).

Step by step you descended as the scenery of the house teetered around you (a little too reminiscent of Me & My Wine, you would add). When you reached the bottom of the stairs and looked into the living room, sure enough, Phil was there, strumming away.

“But it’s easy come and easy go…” he hummed.

“You’re…” you mumbled, burped a little, and continued, “Awake. How?” He stopped playing and crossed his arms, quietly sassing you, “Ah, she rises again. You regrettin’ anything yet?” You blinked and rubbed your eyes, scratching a little bit of paint off of your face and inquiring in a scratchy, tired tone, “I guess so… but- how? You, how?” Phil took off his guitar and stood up with his hands in his pockets, “Because I barely drank at all last night, and I also sure as hell didn’t shag Steve in someone else’s bed!” “How do you mean- I didn’t- wait- and Steve- what?” you rubbed your head, getting dizzy, causing Phil to guide you to the couch. “I didn’t- I didn’t shag Steve last night,” you insisted. “Mm hmm,” the guitarist hummed disapprovingly, “Alright.” “What the hell are you on about?” Phil smirked evilly and laughed, “He carried you upstairs, we heard the door close, and then some rather happy noises were heard, so we all just assumed-!” “That’s not-” you swallowed and lay your head back on the couch, “-a valid assumption.” “Oh, you poor thing,” came the sarcastic remark, “You really don’t remember, do you?” “Well I figured if I ever fucked any one of you I would- you know- remember it!” you raised your voice at him, then rubbed your temples. “I’m touched, really. But I’ll fill you in a bit,” Phil yanked up his guitar he’d put down, placed himself next to you, and played the into to “Ballroom Blitz”. Then a bit of the night came back to you. “Oh... that’s what started it all, didn’t it?”

~The night before~ Rick began banging out a tune on his drum kit in the house with you, Sav, and Steve sitting close by, them being at the ready with their guitars. “You ready, Steve?” you mimicked the original lyrics. “Uh-huh,” he replied exactly like Steve Priest in the original song. “Savy?” you said next. “Yeah,” Sav bopped his head to the beat. “Rick?” “Okay.” “Alright, fellas,” you called out, “Let’s go!” The two guitarists let their instruments ring out around the house, playing the all-too-familar tune. As soon as they started this, the front door opened, and none other than Phil and Joe walked in. Joe was holding a bag that was weighed down by the mass inside it (a painfully obvious sign that there were a few bottles of booze). Although the two of them weren’t talking, they were physically hushed upon hearing the situation you and the others had created. “Oh life’s been getting so hard, living with the things you do to me…” you sang lowly and quietly along with the music being made, just to make sure the musicians knew their places. You noticed Phil run out of the room in excitement, and into the one where he keeps his guitars. Joe, on the other hand, stayed put and watched the rest of you from afar, fighting a smile. “My dreams are getting so strange, I’d like to tell you everything I see…” You stood up, and Joe began walking towards you when you called out the next line of the song, “Oh- I see a man in the back, as a matter of fact, his eyes are as red as a sun!” Joe chimed in without warning at the next line, putting an arm on your shoulder and pointing at you, “And the girl in the corner, let no one ignore her, ‘cos she thinks she’s the passionate one!” *** “It’s, it’s a ballroom blitz, it's, it's a ballroom blitz,” Phil sang the ending teasingly to you when he put his guitar back. It felt like he was rubbing his energy in your face (since you lacked it). Before Phil could continue, Joe suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Yeah! It’s a ballroom blitz!” he announced, throwing his arms into the air and taking a bow. He sounded a bit tipsy still. Joe was wearing his Union Jack shorts, but no shirt. Instead of a shirt, though, he had the words “PROPERTY OF DEF LEPPARD” sloppily painted across his chest in blue and green paint. Right over his nipples there were also two handprints, almost exactly matching the ones on your face. Joe stumbled in the doorway, falling to his knees and groaning in discomfort, “Ohh... probably should’ve stayed in bed.” Phil sluggishly trekked over to the singer and pulled him partially to his feet, yanking him towards the couch, “Oh yeah? And by ‘bed’, you mean-?” “Definitely not the bathtub.” Joe assured him, but winked at you. “No matter where you slept, it’s still not as bad as where she slept,” Phil pointed at you, “And what she did there.” “Why? What’d you do?” Joe’s tipsiness wore away in his sentence, making him sound genuinely concerned and curious. You rolled your eyes, knowing exactly what Phil was going to say, “Phil, I-” “It’s not what she did, it’s who she did- she shagged Steve in my bed!” the guitarist accused you again while pointing a finger. Immediately Joe exclaimed, “Nice!” and held up a hand to high-five you. “Joe!” you scolded him, surprised that he took this as good news. “Oh-uh, not… nice?” he took away the offer of a high-five and scratched the back of his head awkwardly instead, “Also, is that my shirt?” You took a look down at the Union Jack tank top you were wearing and back at Joe’s torso. Then something clicked in your head. “Ohh…” you continued staring at Joe’s chest, feeling yourself blush as old memories unraveled in your head, “I think... I think I remember something else that happened last night.” *** You were all drunk; it was no lie. After your quick jam session, there was a booze-filled music fest going on in the house. Joe had even put on his Union Jack outfit, pretending he was getting ready for a show. At one particular point of this “festival” you'd all created, records were being played, and you ended up dancing in front of Joe to REO Speedwagon’s “Take It On the Run”. “You’re bringing up your white lines, you’re pullin’ on a bedroom eyes, you say you’re going home, but I won’t say when,” you sang the wrong lyrics as you swayed and drunkingly made flirty faces at Joe on the couch. Sav, meanwhile, was playing with some old craft paint off in the corner. The blue and green substances were all over his hands (but somehow, one color managed to stay on each hand). “Yeah, you dance for him, Y/N!” Rick cheered you on from the kitchen as Steve and Phil sat on the couch. Phil was perfectly sober, and Steve was giggling and laying with his head on Phil’s lap. You, on the other hand, were now moving closer to the singer, almost like you were giving him a lap dance. “You take it on the run, baby,” you sang along, slowly taking Joe’s Union Jack tank top off of him (with no objections from below), “If that’s the way you wanna, baby...” In return to Joe being shirtless, you slowly took off your own shirt (triggering wolf-whistles and cheers from the guys) to replace it with Joe’s tank. “Sav, mark him up!” you ordered the painted bassist in the corner as you tried to dress yourself. He happily made his way over to you and questioned, “What should I mark him with?” A single hazy idea came to you, and you eagerly whispered it into Sav’s ear. He giggled in response, and proceeded to move over to Joe, drawing something on his chest in the paint. To keep Joe from looking at what it was, you went behind the chair and covered his eyes, ordering coyly, “No peeking!” “All done!” Sav announced and retreated back to whatever he was doing in the corner. “Now, wait, Sav!” you sped over to him, lifted his hands up, and double high-fived him, getting the paint on your hands as well. To finish off what Sav had started, you ran back over to Joe on the chair, and slapped your hands on his chest, right over his nipples. Laughter erupted from everyone in the room (including Joe) and you repeated Sav’s words. “All done!” Joe gazed down at the words “PROPERTY OF DEF LEPPARD” on his chest as you continued to dance to the song playing. “You’re mine, now! You take it on the run, baby... if that’s the way you want it, baby...” Joe tried to tell you in a sexy voice, “Am I your baby now?” “If that’s the way you want it baby,” you repeated the words from the song to him, “Now I’m done dancing for you! Somebody dance for me!” Steve began pointing at everyone individually, childishly suggesting, “It should be, eenie, meenie, miney, Phil!” “Why me?” Phil laughed in objection as you took a seat across the room. “Because you’re not wasted,” his terror twin argued, poking him on the nose. The sober guitarist looked over at you with happy anticipation, awaiting a comment, while all you did was wiggle your fingers at him with a goofy grin. After that, you returned the gesture to the man on his lap, giving Steve a sexy wink. *** “Oh my god...” you put your head in your hands shamefully as Phil and Joe giggled at the memory of the previous night, “I can’t believe I did all that...” “That was a treat!” Phil laughed, hugging you from the side and pulling you closer to him in consolation, “It was funny! We never get to see that side of you!” “There’s a certain reason why you don’t...” you moaned with embarrassment, then asked out of guilty curiosity, “How many times did I grab your ass during that lap dance...?" Phil thought for a bit before telling you, “Four. Well- four and a half...” You gave a loud groan of protest as Joe laughed and slumped back into the couch. “Oh, you only did those things because you weren’t thinking!” Phil consoled you, swayed back and forth with you in his arms. Joe chimed in, “Yeah, and see what happens when you don’t think? You do! Most importantly, you do Steve!” “I didn't do Steve!” you shot your head up and yelled at Joe. You received only laughs and snorts from both men in reply. Suddenly, Sav appeared on the staircase and began singing “Squeeze Box” by The Who with a tired yet cheeky smirk, “Mama’s got a squeeze box she wears on her chest, and when Stephen comes home, he never gets no rest-” Joe and Phil joined into his song with, “Cos' she’s playin’ all night, and the music’s alright! Mama’s got a squeeze box, Stephen never sleeps at night!” You just put your head back in your hands, trying not to accept your fate of being teased. You didn’t want to think that you possibly shagged Steve. He always seemed so innocent to you in a way, and you feared that this would kill your friendship. If everything the boys said was true, you would never hear the end of it, and you don’t even know what Steve would think of you from now on. Was it possible that he remembered anything about the night before? “It didn’t happen, it didn’t happen...” you repeated to yourself in a whisper as Phil unwrapped his arms from you. Sav came all the way down the stairs; his body language making him look grumpy with the world, but his tired grin signaling that he was pleased with seeing you. “Oh, it happened, sunshine!” the frizzy-haired bassist laughed, but quickly regretted it and rubbed his head with his still-painted hands, “Ah- yep, it happened. You could probably hear you two up the whole damn street.” As Sav wearily joined you all on the couch, Joe complained, “Sounds like that was a treat; I wish I remembered it!” Phil was caught off guard at the comment. His head turned to Joe in the blink of an eye and gasped, “Wait, you don’t remember hearing them?!” “I wish I could say I do, but there’s nothing there,” Joe stood up after he spoke, and quickly held onto the wall nearby. His hand went over his stomach as he whined, “Oh... fuck, Y/N, why did you make me race you last night?" “'Race me'?” you squinted as you inquired, “Race you with what?” Joe didn’t answer, but slowly took steps into the kitchen, using the wall as his guide. His answer came when you, Sav, and Phil all heard him throw up into the sink. You sighed, resting your hands over your eyes, trying to remember the cause of Joe’s sickness, “Oh no, was that really my idea?” *** “Look what I found!” you trotted into the room tipsily, holding two bottles; one of scotch, one of vodka, “Only half full! Who wants em?” While you weren’t full-on drunk, it was no secret that the title wasn’t that far away. After your little Ballroom Blitz, it was one beer after the next, then it was digging into the fancy liquors that Phil and Joe had just brought home. Your judgment was impaired, no doubt about it, and so was the judgment of all the guys. Joe even changed into his normal live-show-only Union Jack tank top, claiming that he was gonna "put on a show." The only one who was still sane and sober was Phil, who seemed to be staying away from your poison. Upon registering your sacred offer of alcohol, Rick ran forward, chanting, “Me! Me!” You lifted the bottles away from him, commanding, “Uh-uh! I get the scotch.” “Oh, bollocks, then you can keep the vodka,” the young drummer grumbled and turned away from you. Just as Rick rejected your offering, Joe sprung up and eagerly trotted over while shouting happily, “I’ll take it!” “Sold!” you handed the bottle over to him, “Betcha can’t finish before me!” “Betcha I can!” he sneered back before taking the cap off his bottle. There was no official “ready, set, go” for the race; you both just kind of went for it without any saying. While your throat and stomach were already protesting your actions (and you could almost sense that Joe’s were doing the same), you didn’t stop once; neither of you did. You held up your bottle and announced, “Done!” Looking over, you saw Joe was also finished. “I finished first!” “Nuh-uh!” you insisted, “It had to be me! Tell him, guys!” The four others hadn’t been paying attention to you and Joe’s little competition; they were instead focused on a box that Sav had pulled out from a cupboard. From the box they pulled out bottles of paint and various types of used makeup.

Joe scolded them all in a more sober manner, “Oh come on, you lot weren’t even watching!” “Yeah, yeah, it was probably a tie, anyways,” Rick chuckled, pulling out more items from the box. “This box is much more interesting, too," Phil protested, holding up a stick of lipstick as Sav held up two bottles of paint, "This is a box of makeup that I had for me and the lads in Girl! Just look at it all! Think we can have some fun with this?" "Oh, piss off," you threw the empty bottle onto the couch, "We need some music." Joe had slumped down onto a chair, and you stumbled your way over to the shelf with all the records on it, flipping through and eyeing them all as carefully as your body would let you. After only a few seconds of searching, your eyes lit up at a discovery. "Here's a good one!" you exclaimed as you pulled out a copy of Hi Infidelityby REO Speedwagon, "Let's give it a spin!" ***

Joe wandered back into the room and fell onto the empty couch with a grumble. “Sorry, Joe...” you muttered over to him, realizing that you pressured him into more consumption of the booze. “It was probably gonna happen anyway...” he admitted, wiping his hands over his face, “It’s was my stupid choice to go through with it.” “Woah,” Phil pointed out out of nowhere, looking at you with great surprise, “What’s that on your neck?” You felt your heart drop into your stomach. “What!?” you shot up from where you sat (bringing on more dizziness), and rushed over to a mirror. Once your dizziness subsided, and you could finally see your reflection, the pink shape of a hickey on the side of your neck was now clearly conspicuous. You wondered how you hadn't noticed it before. Joe exclaimed with a smug and proud grin, “Is that from Steve!?” You groaned angrily, feeling yourself become more and more defeated. “I can’t believe it,” you gasped, slapping a hand over the mark, “Something did happen between us-!” “Y/N,” Phil pointed out again, “There’s lipstick on your thigh...” Looking down at your legs, you saw that he was right. There was a single red symbol on your right thigh that marked a kiss from the night before. Upon seeing this, what you saw when you woke up popped into your head. “Looks like Steve went to town down there,” Sav smirked at you, only wanting to rub it in more. “Guys,” you softly noted, “That wasn’t Steve... he has lipstick marks all over his face from someone else...” The three men all exchanged confused looks with each other. There was a dead end to the story of the previous night. None of them knew how to solve the mystery of the lipstick. Not even Phil, who was as good as sober 12 hours ago, didn’t have any input. Sav suddenly blurted out, “Wait a minute, I know what happened- I think...” No one said anything, but eagerly leaned forward, ready to hear the tale the bassist had to tell. “You lot remember how we found that box of old makeup last night?” he began, “Well, I walked into the bathroom with you afterwards, Y/N...” *** Rick looked at himself in the mirror in the bathroom, carefully applying the makeup to his lips, and being extra careful to not get it on the blazer he was wearing. The drummer put on his best suit just to see how it would look with the makeup he was putting on. He thought he was doing a good job for the most part; he didn’t look half bad at all! It was far easier than he expected it to be, and wondered if he was good enough to help you with your makeup at times. Thinking of you seemed to have made you appear in the doorway next to him. Both of your hands were still covered in paint. “Sink,” was all you commanded of the drummer. He moved without a word and you began to wash your hands. At the same instant, Sav appeared nearby. He grabbed the doorframe and began to swing from it, leaving conspicuous handprints afterwards. “Aren’t you gonna wash up, too?” Rick crossed his arms to sass him. “Nah, I want the colors, they’re makin’ me feel- colorful...” Sav grinned, walking over to you at the sink, requesting, “C’mere.” You looked up, only to have your face taken in Sav’s paint-covered hands. He softly giggled as you squared your vision in on him with a sneer. “Rude,” you teased, then went back to washing your hands; paint now all over your face. “What’s really rude,” Rick pulled back the shower curtain and taking a step into the tub, “Is you two interrupting my makeup time! Good night!” He sat himself down in the tub and laid himself down as if he was going to sleep.

Before he had the chance to catch some shut-eye, you marched over to the tub and objected, “Rick, if you’re gonna sleep, I want a goodnight kiss first.” Without another word, Rick sat up and planted a kiss on your thigh (since it was closest to him). There was now a bright red imprint of his lips on your leg. “Thank you.” you smiled down at him, “Now goodnight.” “Don’t leave the water on, you hear?” Sav nagged him, pointing a colored finger, “You’ll drown." Rick chuckled with his eyes closed, “I’ll drink myself out. I'm in a drinkin mood, anyways." “Oh yeah? You haven’t got a straw or anything,” the intoxicated bassist continued to argue with him. “Then don’t let me drown! Get one!" “I’ll get you one later. I’ll just-“ Sav burped, and continued, “I’ll write a note or something.” “Sounds good, mate,” Rick slumped further into the tub and pulled the curtain closed, “Now you gonna stay here all night?” “Actually,” you noted out loud to yourself, different alcoholic emotions boiling up inside you, “I wanna go downstairs- I just need to see Steve- like right now...!" You turned on your heels, speeding past Sav and flying back down the stairs. *** “So that explains the paint on my face, and the paper in the hallway, and the lipstick, but what happened after that?” you asked Sav, as you were now slumped on top of Phil’s arm again. “Beats me,” Sav ran his still-painted hands through his hair, “That’s all I’ve got.” “But wait, if you said that Rick fell asleep in the bathtub...” Phil began his sentence, only for you and the other two men to exchange knowing looks with each other. All four of you immediately sprung up and rushed (as much as you could) up the stairs and into the bathroom. Upon getting there, Phil flung back the shower curtain to reveal a partially awake Rick, dressed in a suit, and still wearing the lipstick from the night before. “Mornin’,” he groaned as he stretched, then winced, “Ah, fuck- sleeping in here wasn’t the best idea for me neck.” Sav looked back at the paint on the doorframe and asked the drummer, “So then why did you sleep in here?” “Oh,” Rick looked around the tub, stating as-a-matter-of-factly, “The porcelain keeps the suit from wrinkling. I guess drunk me was very careful last night.” “I’ll say,” Joe complemented, “The lipstick’s still holding up pretty well.” Phil halted the conversation, “Wait, so you were in here when I went to the bathroom in the middle of the night?” Rick chuckled, “Yeah, and let me tell you, for a smaller guy, you’ve got a big bladder.” “Wait,” you slowly turned and pointed at Joe, “I thought you said you slept in the bathtub-?” He gave you a cocky smirk in return, “I told you, ‘definitely not the bathtub’...” Rick sleepily laughed and pointed at you, “Ha- Y/N, you look like Joe!” “Why, just because of the shirt?” you inquired, pointing at Joe’s tank top on you. “And the paint!” Rick corrected you, “I can’t believe you guys didn’t wash it off yet!” In a second, you felt a rush of worry upon realizing that Rick hadn’t said anything about you and Steve yet. It made you suddenly come to the possible conclusion that he may not know about it all. “Wait,” Phil snapped his fingers, “So you do remember some stuff from last night?” “Yeah, a bit, I think. Why?” “Philip Kenneth Collen, don’t you fucking dare....” you growled at him in an almost pleading manner, rubbing your temples and grinding your teeth. “What do you remember?” Phil asked him, not giving any sort of reaction to your begging. Rick thought for a few seconds, clearly as hungover as the rest of you. It didn’t take him long to list off some brief happenings he recalled. “Well, I remember us singing Sweet, there was a lap dance, I remember- uh, being denied a bottle of scotch, there was, uh... there was lipstick... and did I try to ice-skate on pieces of cardboard down the hall...?” “Is that why there’s cardboard all down the hallway?” you motioned towards the door. Rick gave you a big proud smile and a nod in response. “So...” Joe looked around, definitely looking eager, “What’s the last thing you remember before falling asleep?” Rick rested his head back on the tub again, thinking as hard as his hungover mind would let him. You hoped to every god there was that he didn’t say anything about Steve. “Just Phil comin’ in here and having a long piss, that’s all.” came the verdict. “You sure you didn’t hear-“ Phil anxiously began to ask him, but got a hand slapped over his mouth by you. “No!” you yelled on impulse, sending more daggers through your burned-out head. All eyes were now on you, and silence fell. For a few tense seconds, you stared into Phil’s eyes, sending him visual messages of both threats and desperate requests. “...what the hell happened last night?” Rick broke the silence in a tone of utter confusion, knowing that something more serious than what he remembered had taken place. You pulled your hand back from Phil’s face, “Yuck, Phil, come on!” “You licked her hand, didn’t you?” asked Sav. “Yes,” Phil confirmed, and continued without missing a beat, “And I’m glad you asked that, Rick, cos' I know what happened after Y/N and Sav paid you a visit last night.” “Phil, if you love me in any way, shape, or form, you will not tell Rick what happened,” you begged to him as you began to walk out the bathroom door, heading back downstairs to wallow in more of your shameful hangover, “I refuse to believe it happened until there’s hard proof.” “Well what more proof do you want? A positive pregnancy test?” Phil shrugged, but suddenly slapped his own hand over his mouth, realizing what he’d just said. You shot him an angry look. You were too tired to have it out with him, so you stumbled away. Right about now, you were ready to give up and accept the fact that you probably did shag Steve. Phil turned to Rick, gaping, and slowly began to speak again, "Right... so last night, after those two were in here, I think that’s when they came back downstairs..." *** "So why are you tying up my hair again?" a drunk Steve asked Phil, who was happily putting his hair into pigtails. "Because I knew you’d look pretty, and I knew you wouldn't object, either," the other guitarist laughed evilly as he finished tying the second bundle of golden locks together, "There, you're all done now." "Cool... I think," Steve tilted his head, staring at himself in the mirror on the wall as footsteps began pounding their way down the stairs. "I think you look pretty, Steve. Pretty, pretty, pretty," Joe giggled as he was flipped off by the pig-tailed guitarist. As this happened, you trampled the stairs in your descent, calling out, “Steve- Steve! Come here!” More than happy to be ripped away from Phil’s pigtailed plans, he let you run up to him as you belted out, “I’ve got an idea...!” He didn’t say anything, but he did let you whisper something in his ear. The second he heard your idea, his eyes lit up and an evil smirk crossed his face. Steve was always in the mood for causing terror. You pulled back and exchanged the same look of understanding with the guitarist. He stared at you with a sort of appreciation, and without another word, swept you off your feet, carrying you bridal style now. With a quick smooch to your lips, he began carrying you up the stairs as you giggled with some sort of glee. Phil’s jaw dropped, looking at Joe with astonishment in the process. The singer’s face mirrored the exact same expression. “I should’ve bloody known...” Phil gasped in astonishment, “She’s been eyeing him up real funny all night... I can’t fucking believe it!” Sav came down the stairs slowly, his life depending on the railing as he dragged his hand on it. He left a long streak of blue paint as he did so. “What’s gotten into their pants?” “Each other, apparently,” Joe scoffed, taking a sip of a beer he found, “Lord knows how the hell that happened.” *** You were all sitting back on the couches in the living room, all seemingly regretting the night before (you knew you most certainly were). Everyone knew that the end of Phil’s story was the true ending of the night. Now there was really a dead end to the whole tale. “I can’t believe it,” you whispered with sorrowful acceptance, “Me and Steve...? What happened next?” Joe scoffed, “Well that’s kind of a stupid question.” “That’s where it ends, Y/N. I went up to bed afterwards, only to hear-“ Phil cleared his throat to impersonate you and Steve, “‘Oh, Steve! Yes!’ coming from my room! So after an immense helping of disapproval, I slept in Rick’s room.” “No, no, that can’t be it!” you insisted, “Guys, what really happened next?” “Can’t say,” Joe mumbled, holding his head. “Sorry, mate,” Rick apologized. Sav remained silent, but looked apologetic. “That can’t be where it ends...!” you persisted, “Sav? Tell me I’m right!” Sav rolled in his lips, and darted his eyes away from you. You continued to stare at him suspiciously, but no one else thought anything of it. Phil tried to finalize your fate sympathetically, “Give it up, Y/N, at least it’s all over now.” “But it still happened! What am I gonna say to Steve when he wakes up? You know what- no. It didn’t happen, I refuse to believe that it did.” “How much more proof do you want?” Rick shrugged, pointing at Phil and Sav, trying to make you face the terrible truth, “They both heard ya, and Steve even gave you a hickey.” You hung your head, thinking you might just decide to cry out of shame. Yes, you loved Steve, just as you loved anyone else in the band, but you never had (or planned to have) any sort of sexual relationship with them. Even if you ever did, you were afraid it would ruin everything your friendship had stood for. “Sav, what’s wrong, mate?” Joe asked out of the blue. The bassist in question was still avoiding the conversation, staying eerily silent and weaving his hands together. At this point, you noticed that he was also blushing. “That wasn’t Steve.” he stated bluntly, still not looking at you. “What wasn’t Steve?” you asked as you stared at him dead on, your heart now pounding. “That hickey... that wasn’t Steve,” he paused, “That was me.” Immediately you gasped and slapped a hand over the mark on your neck. “What?!” the other three exclaimed. Joe and Rick immediately hissed at the searing pain their outbursts caused. “Sav, what the hell?!” you scolded him, finally happy that you weren’t the only one being called out for their mistakes. “Now before you say anything else,” he finally looked at you and held up a hand, “It was your idea.” Your face fell, softly asking him, “What do you mean?” “Well, after you and Steve-you know- and only Joe and I were downstairs, you actually came back down, too- wipe that smug look off your face, Joe. You’re not entirely innocent here, either.” *** You stumbled down the stairs, giggling to yourself. Your mission was now accomplished, and Steve was asleep upstairs. In a word, you were pleased. In two words, you were still drunk. Records were still being played when you returned to the living room, and Joe currently had his copy of Sheer Heart Attack on the turntable. “She Makes Me (Stormtrooper In Stilettos)”flowed softly from its speakers. “There’s our killer queen!” Joe cooed to you happily. He was now sprawled out on the couch, two empty beer bottles on the floor beside him. Sav wasn’t too far off. The paints on his hands were now dry, and he was reclined in a chair across the room, twiddling a bottle in his hand. They both looked ready for bed, and it made you wonder how they held out for this long. The singer slurred on with an interested smirk, “You two have fun?" Sav spoke up with a scoff-like laugh, “Sure sounded like it!" “Oh, you know it,” you gave them a wink, setting yourself down on the couch next to Joe, “Guess Phil finally ditched, huh?” “Yeah, the wanker went to bed- but you’ve lost your pants!” he gestured to your black underwear, made room for you to lay down with him, and took you in his arms like a teddy bear with a sigh of appeasement. You reached back and playfully poked at Joe’s dimple, “Steve's fault." “Well, that’s no good,” Sav objected, pushing the footrest of the chair in and returning to a sitting position. “What isn’t?” Joe asked him, "Steve gettin' into it with her?" “No, that cuddlin' you're doing- it’s boring. You stay like that, you’ll fall asleep on me!” He was certainly right about this. With you in Joe’s arms and his face nuzzling into your hair like some sort of animal, he was already falling asleep. “What do you want us to do?” you chuckled, thinking that Sav was only jealous of his friend. Joe mumbled happily into your hair, “How 'bout you just do me like Steve, and we’ll be good.” At this point, you noticed the feeling of something pressing lightly against the bottom of your back; a certain weight where Joe’s hips were, and a weight that wasn’t there at first. “Joe,” you whined at him, “You’re fucking gross.” He chuckled, then slowly moved his hips to lightly rub himself against you, a low quiet moan rising in his throat from the temporary pleasure it provided. “Ah- Joe!” you protested again, reaching back and hitting him as best as you could. You wiggled out of his embrace as he burst into giggles like he had just accomplished something. Sav, on the other hand, cringed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re even hornier than when you’re sober!” you grabbed a pillow and whacked Joe with it. “You’re one to talk! You just shagged Steve!” he smirked evilly, "Why not me?" “Ha! The only way I’ll do you is by some miracle, or at least a dare,” you threw yourself onto the other couch, picking up a nearly empty beer bottle and pouring whatever was left into your mouth. Sav’s eyes finally lit up, “That’s what we oughta do- truth or dare!” “Ooh, sounds like terrible fun,” you turned yourself so you were sitting upside-down on the couch, “Sav, truth or dare?” “How come he gets to go first?” asked Joe, “I wanna get down to business!” “Dare,” Sav declared, ignoring the singer’s objections. Immediately, your intoxicated mind thought of a scheme. Despite the plan you and Steve had executed ever so perfectly, you were still a child seeking more terror. You knew Joe wanted you, and it was no secret either, so how exactly would you use Sav to reign terror over him? You wanted something to rub in Joe’s face- something that would leave a mark on him. “I dare you to-" you clumsily pointed to your neck, "Gimme a hickey.” Joe's jaw dropped with offense and jealousy; exactly as you had expected. Sav began to laugh rather loudly at the request, and stood up, now understanding your true intention of making Joe jealous. “C’mere,” he motioned with his hand. More than happy to obey the command, you strutted over to him and paused, waiting for him to make the first move. He took a step so your bodies were practically pressing together, moved your hair out of the way on your neck, and dove right in. You smiled with glee, taking in the feeling of Sav’s mouth and tongue moving over your skin (as well as Joe’s groans of protest coming from a few feet away). As the bassist sucked on your neck without hesitation, it only made you think of one thing: “Wow, there’s definitely gonna be a mark after this.” *** Rick and Phil were staring at Sav with their mouths open in shock. You kept a hand over the mark he left on your neck to prevent everyone from looking any more than they already had. “So, wait, if it was you who gave me this, why didn’t you say anything before when we said it was Steve?” you asked Sav, more suspicious than outraged now. “I- ah, didn’t... wanna say anything...” he looked away, beginning to blush again, “I guess I was too embarrassed." “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is you, Joe,” Rick turned his attention back to the singer, “You fuckin dry humped her!” Joe exclaimed in his own defense, “Yeah, and I don’t even remember it! It’s not my fault- I was drunk and horny!” “See! Just like me and Steve! I don’t remember shagging him, either! So I guess we’re even.” “Even Stephen,” Phil scoffed. You slumped into the couch more, staring blankly ahead and realizing, “So I pretty much got to second base with all of you last night...?” “I think you made it all the way home with Steve,” Rick pointed out. “Thanks, Rick,” you kept your head hung, “I feel like a slut.” “You mean you’re not?” Phil joked, only to be hit in the arm by Sav.

Just then, you all heard the sound of movement upstairs. Your heart stopped and your blood ran cold; Steve was awake now. Everyone's jaws hit the floor, and for a second, you thought they were all afraid of what you were fearing. "He's awake..." Rick announced in a sing-song voice, teasing you. “Oh no...” you gasped quietly, “Oh no, oh no! Oh god, what am I gonna do? What am I gonna say to him?!” “Hate to break it to ya, but this isn’t necessarily our problem!” Joe shrugged in a panic, hearing Steve’s footsteps get closer. “But guys! You’ve gotta help me! You’re his best friends! What should I say to him?!” “Just act like it didn’t happen! Maybe he doesn’t remember-?” Sav proposed. Rick suggested, “Just straight up ask him if he remembers anything!” “Just get out of here!” Phil made a swatting motion towards the other room. “None of those are gonna do me any good! It still happened!” you yelled at them in a whisper, “I have to live that with that fact, even if neither of us have any memory of it to live with!” It was too late for any salvation; Steve was already at the top of the stairs. The band members held their breath, and- without words or warning- all scrambled out of the living room. “No!” you whispered, “Guys- wait!” You caught Rick by the wrist when he stood up. “Rick, c’mon, please don’t leave me here!” you begged. He yanked out of your grip and apologetically condemned you, “Sorry, Y/N, but this is your business.” As the four of them retreated, you tried to bolt after them. As soon as you hit the doorway, however, Phil turned around and pushed you back on the couch nearby as slowly as he could. It was so sudden that you were on your back before you knew it, and they were all gone. “Hey!” you called out after them, “Assholes!” Steve’s voice suddenly came to your ears (rather closely, too), “What’s their problem?” You jumped, “Ah- Steve!” He had a silent step, and made it down the stairs and across the room without making a sound. He also looked just as he did a little while ago when you first woke up; scraggly hair, lipstick stains all over his face, but no visible evidence of a hangover. “Hey, wow,” you forced an awkward chuckle at him, “Nice- uh, nice- lipstick...” Steve slumped down onto a chair and grumbled, “Thanks. Who even did this to me? Doesn’t look like it was you.” “That was, that was Rick- I’m assuming... I don’t remember that happening and I don’t think he does, either. He’s still got the lipstick on, too.” He played off the remark with a tired smile, “Oh, nice... last night really was something, wasn’t it?” Heat rushed to your face, and you tried to look away without being conspicuous. “Ha ha... yeah... really something!” you faked your amusement for him, now wondering if he was implying anything about the previous night. Steve leaned forward and asked, “Do you remember Sav and the paint? That was pretty funny, wasn’t it?” Still blushing, you darted your eyes around the room and nodded in agreement, “Mm hmm, yeah... he was like a toddler or something.” He sunk back into the chair again and closed his eyes, reminiscing about the events of the previous night. For a second you thought you were in the clear, and that maybe he didn’t remember the specific event that Phil and Sav did.

That illusion was shattered when his eyes snapped open, whispering “Wait a minute”, and sitting back up. Immediately, your heart dropped into your stomach.

“How did our plan go?” he questioned quietly, figuring that the others were still somewhere nearby and listening. “P-plan?” you stuttered, partially afraid of what he meant, but partially caught off guard, “What plan?” “You know-” he whispered again, thinking you remembered, “It was your idea. Did they believe it? We were convincing enough?" You darted your eyes down to the floor, confused, but also embarrassed. 'Convincing'? What did that mean? "Oh come on, don’t tell me you don’t remember!” he smiled playfully. As you stared at him with fearful confusion in your eyes and redness on your cheeks, his smile was suddenly wiped away. He muttered under his breath as his face fell, "Oh... you don't remember... bloody hell, okay, this is gonna be hard to explain..." "Then explain it, because I'm really fucking confused..." your voice wavered with a sarcastic chuckle. Steve sighed and leaned forward, slowly weaving his hands together. He didn't know where to begin. "This is one of the few things I remember from last night..." he started off, "And there's no way to make this sound... good... in any way, but you came up with the idea of us pretending to shag- like making noises and shit like that- to trick the others into thinking we really did. For some reason I thought it was a great idea, and I'm pretty sure I carried you upstairs, too.” Instantly, a huge weight was lifted off your shoulders. It wasn't real; you didn't shag Steve, and he could even tell the guys himself! You blew out a big sigh of relief, and slumped back into the couch, closing your eyes. "Oh, god," you slowly panted, "What a huge relief- I suppose we were really convincing, then." "Why d'you say that?" You laughed tiredly, now feeling rather thankful for your raging hangover, "The guys are all convinced that we fucked last night. Only Phil and Sav seem to remember it, though. They've been hounding me about it all morning. I kept telling them it couldn't be true- and I was right!" "What, would it be so bad if we actually did?" he teased you in a hushed voice. "Well, I've had to live my day so far under the impression it did happen. I was teased, ridiculed, embarrassed, and felt guilty about it. I was afraid it'd ruin our friendship if it was true... I was kinda hoping you didn't remember so we could just forget..." The red in your face returned all over again. Steve, however, didn't seem bothered. "If you really want to, we can keep pretending it happened and steer into the act; give em' what they want." "What? No!" you laughed out loud, standing up, "You're crazy, Clark! I think I better go tell the others the bad news. They'll be disappointed-ha!" You walked across the room to go find the others and disclose unto them the "bad news", giving Steve a pat on the shoulder when you passed him. Once you were gone and out of sight, Steve also blew out a big sigh of relief. "She didn't remember anything," he thought to himself, "That was a close one." While he knew you two didn't go all the way the previous night, he figured if you didn't remember it, then it was for the best you didn't find out. It was nothing serious; just a bit of fooling around, really. Just a bit of drunked-up teasing, and nothing more. The guys had no proof that anything actually happened between you two, and you were about to tell them the partial truth anyway, so why say something to reignite the suspicion? After all, they were all hungover to begin with, so there wasn't much memory of the whole affair, either. "Thank god for these hangovers,"Steve thought, "Thank god. I couldnt've asked for anything more." ~Epilogue~ When you got to the top of the stairs, Steve put you on your feet and spun you around. "You ready?" he whispered, childish excitement in his voice. You nodded with equal excitement, "Take me away, Clark." The two of you began eagerly walking hand-in-hand to whatever room you pleased, but before either of you had the chance to pick one, the bathroom door opened, Rick popped his head out and commanded, "Stop right there!" Both you and Steve froze and looked at him. He still had his lipstick and his suit on, and a kind of serious look overtaking his face. A finger was kept in a pointing position at you, a few large pieces of cardboard were underneath his other arm, and he slowly took steps down the hall to meet you. Neither of you moved, but both of you waited. When Rick got to you, he didn't say a word, but did take Steve's face in his hands (dropping the cardboard in the process), and proceeded to the kiss the man all over his face.

Steve remained silent, and let Rick have his way until he decided to stop. When he did, there were several lipstick stains on various parts of the blonde's face.

"Thanks, mate," Steve muttered sarcastically as Rick kicked some of the cardboard pieces in different directions. He then stepped on two of them, trying to slide down the hall on them as if they were ice skates. When he got back to the bathroom, he went back inside and shut the door again.

Without another word, you turned Steve's face toward you, gave him a peck on the cheek as Rick had done, and kicked open the door behind you (which just so happened to be Phil's bedroom). You both fell back into the room, giggling with makeshift lust in your eyes.

After all, you had to make this authentic, right?

[incarnateirony]

15.15: The Absent Mother

I’ve had to take a great deal of time to pull my thoughts together on this episode because it was so MUCH. I’ve said in the past that I wasn’t a fan of Davy; he often layered his things very thinly. But today was a masterfully interwoven piece to the point I literally watched another show for an hour while thinking about it, went and took a shower for half an hour to scrub my head clean, and came back to this and STILL sat to write about it.

So if you’re new to my meta, I’m going to break the ice. You need to read my The Generational Family post to dip your toes in. It speaks in plain english things that will be less-plain english in this post.

If you’re less-new to my meta, but often floating in the occult references, I’m going to try to drop links to posts or tag folders of references.

But what a fantastic salute to the Empress this entire episode is.

Now let’s dive in.

It’s no secret my blog bangs on about arcana on the regular. I have spoken of the four colors (represented in the above gif but also frequenting the #hues of involution tag). 

Frankly, I consider it invariable that the brother focused episode will summon forth The Emperor as a key focus. Somewhere in that chaos binder of tags I even predicted that much when I saw the color themes of the episode, but that’s a whole other aside--just something to put a pin in the idea of while I speak of the Empress, and the Generational Family.

(15.16 update: hahahahah)

I’ve gone feral

BACK TO ORIGINAL 15.15 POST

Some time back I had made a post about Castiel’s tie to this path; be that his frequent association with Mary over time (be it storyline parallels in general arc, John and Mary’s meeting, mixtapes or whatever else); that he and Rowena served as mirror and foil from her earliest conception, back when his parental storylines hovered more in regret over Claire; that Amara and her forced bond were associations of the profound bond and many lines directly mirrored while other motions challenged each other (Eg, heart tie, profound bond>mark bond);

I even made a joke at one point that Castiel should wear a pink trenchcoat to match Rowena’s dress.

This, of course, I joked equally was absurd, and that we would probably have to settle for the violet-pink light of Death on both him and Dean in 15.13′s alchemical Marriage of the Minds.

This Marriage of the Minds you’ll find plenty of topic on for my blog, and all in association with the Art arcana, from which the Occultum is drawn to begin with in its concept. This may seem like a long drift aside from the episode itself, but is more a preface of discussion based reminders.

Either way, @meta-mania-spn​ outright trolled in to my trenchcoat joke with this when it was released, saying “here’s your pink trenchcoat.”

And how on point you were!

But I’m going to have to ask fandom to do me a favor before we continue any further in this discussion.

I’m going to need you to stop trying to shove everything in singular boxes applicable to one and only-one storyline. Go back to the Generational Family post. Make sure that’s anchored like, in your subconscious at this point. Know it, feel it. 

Okay, now we can continue.

Hah hah “You’re standing in The Trap zone.” Okay.

So obviously, we have two major story ends going on right now: On the one hand, Sam and Dean go have a discussion to Amara where they plan to lie to her to pull off a stunt against Chuck; on the other hand, we have Castiel and Jack working a case. This seems simple enough in our structure.

Amara’s face of this ends up being entirely reflection. Of her cosmogenic origins (”We are the same.”), We Are Twins (I point to Thoth’s use of the twins in generational storytelling), etc. Of her history with Dean. Of her reasons of bringing Mary back.

Fandom may not like her reasons for bringing Mary back. They may even hate them. And we’ll get back to this later, but this is the sum of this.

On the other hand, Cas and Jack think a demon is involved. They even summon one. Turns out Rowena, in taking over hell, has adopted a new system. No more tricking and damning souls. People end up where they belong. The demon is bored (which has a funny shout out at the end on him trying to find a new purpose--as a cop, which is about six levels of commentary but I digress), but the continued path of Rowena renovating hell from welcome meetings for damned souls to lack of intentionally dragging others down is made clear, while evoked.

I point back to Rowena’s own history: at one point she aspired for power, but after Funeralia, she was stricken with guilt and grief over feeling like she abandoned her son. This is a thread that I have tried to put in videos over time as a still-binding tie; Castiel staring into Belphegor’s husked out eyes at one point, even if it wasn’t really his fault, just as we lost Rowena who went to essentially reclaim her son’s legacy and throne since she couldn’t atone for his loss.

But then we get to the case. It’s a whole long adventure, much of which has some bog-standard casework; we do have Castiel coming to speak that he found new meaning in becoming a parent (rolling back to the parental thread), and there’s a bunch of great imagery we’ll cover below. But before we get to that, let’s focus on the resolution.

It reveals a broken family structure: Mother was sick and felt shoved away, Father Changed Things, and the child ended up on a destructive path about following god.

Now when I talk about not boxing things in on one level, I’m going to break down this family a bit.  We’ll also just totes ignore the Joseph-the-Carpenter tattoo on the pastor that clearly has NOTHING to do with Joseph behind Dean only an episode ago and the entire Emperor theme with the sun behind his head. After the whole Mary behind Cas thing. Nope, nothing to see here. Has NOTHING to do with the generational stuff I’m about to talk below. That’d be silly right?

You also have to think of it this way. If Pastor Joe (yes that’s his FKING name) a parallel, so is his dead wife. There are levels where it was felt she was mocked, and pushed away, which tied into Amara this episode. You have your Chuck and Amara level parallel. However, on the emotional level, the mother figure that Castiel actually ends up representing is also coming due to be absent. And this is about the father's atonement with that just as much as it is with Dean having his dialogue with Amara.

On many levels. Dean and Amara’s dialogue trades of old grudges, old motivations, but also current events and learning to live in the now. 

The child, however, was still stuck in the past--a past the mother who told her to believe in God seemed to want, but the same kind of duty Castiel became aware of needing to change in the past. But she got stuck in it.

While she judged people by their sins, Jack and Castiel end up finding the poor unfortunate man judged by Lust, after an entire aside Castiel had with the pastor about one of the victims struggling as a gay man and what-not; For Reasons(TM). But this is an arcana post, not a “point out the obvious fucking screaming queer text and subtext being put in blinker lights this episode” post, so I’m going to generally show that the misguided and wrathful child thought she was carrying out God’s will.

And then I direct you to my Lust tag.

I have far longer stuff on it, but if you skim, you’ll find the loudest message is about not letting a wrathful god judge or punish you for sins. It involves the Whore of Babylon as a symbol of power riding a beast that represented (Aleister) Crowley; or in this case, Rowena riding Crowley to power, but also birthing and rearranging a new world. I point back to the demon in question, and then I gesture to the stuff about Castiel’s impending storyline overlap.

Did other sins get punished, sure; the one girl got greed, for example. If you check my posts on the Lust topic, there are other forms of debauch actually associated with lust beyond just carnal lovers, but the message about ignoring god’s wrath and making the new world remains in-tact.

This is the kind of wrath enacted by the girl. Who is furious about how the aeon changed. Because you changed everything, dad. They don’t worship God, they worship You.

So here’s the fun question: Is this a child of man furious that man is no longer the true god because Chuck in the corrupted Emperor path has changed the world to his whims, just flipped? That is to say, that they no longer see the Shadow as The One True God? Or is this someone throwing a tantrum on Chuck’s behest that the world of man is being reclaimed? Or is it a generalized moral of all of these things contingent on the choices The Ones -- Sam and Dean -- make moving forward? And what of Jack inevitably feeling like he has to do Dean’s commands, with the task laid out to destroy God as mapped by Death, in the inevitable absence of Castiel?

Now this has drifted a wide-berth from speaking of the Empress herself, which I’ll roll back to. I had mentioned, for example, the pink. So let’s talk about why that is.

The Empress is the Matron. While she goes through many forms, this is sort of the central or individualized one. She represents a fertility in preparing to birth the new world. She holds a blossom, she takes a pose I’m not gonna bother breaking down in this post, and she is crowned in a sphere that is passed to her from the Emperor which she will wear until the next aeon from their union is born.

She is represented by the moon, and though her child will eventually become the new sun it must first be the earth, her emperor is her current sun; the son is the reflection of the father in the eyes of the mother; the Empress Moon lets the Emperor Sun shine on her face and brings life to the earth in their union, and again, I point back to the Marriage of the Minds post.

Now, see that bird in the corner? That’s a pelican. It’s frequently associated in old alchemy as the mother giving her life, as part of the birthing process is also death, for her next generation. I have spoken in the past that Byzantium itself is an ideal example of that. The pelican has intensive alchemical implications, but it was believed she “fed her child from her own heart.”

Okay cool so there’s just a bleeding heart right there while Jack struggles with feeling like he has to deal with this alone, while Castiel tries to insist he doesn’t, with the renegade child taking it upon herself to carry out god’s work and essentially going mad/bad. Castiel not wanting to let that all fall on Jack.

There’s also giant posters about THE WORLD and a mirror shadow Safe Place poster which I’m not even going to talk on much beyond gesturing vaguely at my Shadow tag and Universe tag and move on, but I will take particular note of the hands reaching out to Cas and the world as a vague gesture to once again stick a pin in.

I mean there’s a few other themes I’m going to point out for general notes: hearts everywhere,

Some stuff on Day and Night and hands all over/handholding, which I’ll point to my talk on Absence for false dichotomies

And an admittedly offtopical “lmao fuck this news screen”

But with that, I move forward:

The child here was dressed almost EERILY like Mrs Butters, for the record. And uh-- /wore her cross upside down/

They both kind of represent the same thing of misguided ideals, though Mrs Butters proved able to be reasoned with at the end and went to go return to nature where she belonged, just as man should return to his place some day free of god’s machinations; but she didn’t break her cycle and her fate is to be decided after this by court and what-not, which.. you know, fine.

But that’s a note worth passing re: Mrs Butters, but again, it needs to fall to generational; child vs parent, with Mrs Butters being the lightly lamia-associated elder who lost her sons and went mad trying to protect them according to how she had been commanded, just like this story, too, comes to misguided commands in absence.

Add in of course that Butters pointed out Jack was “too much like his father”. This, of course, was a shot at Lucifer in a way, but the serpent she evoked isn’t truly symbolic of Lucifer in our show, it’s about humanity. And uh, who is synonymous synced to in SPN? Even ignoring the relevance of the serpent to the Emperor? 

Throughout this episode, Jack waltzes around imprinted on habits from Dean, taking on the weight of the world, sacrifice, doing it alone, and inevitably, small bursts of anger.

While... Amara tracks and polka dances sideways across the Mary issue of idealizations vs realities, of the Now being more important than the Then. Fandom gets stuck on how unfair it was to Dean and considers it torture which, human perspective, fair. But Amara isn’t thinking on your human level. In fact she very loudly flags around how Dean (and frankly, the audience) doesn’t properly perceive the scope of what she even is. 

Castiel, driving home, continues to try to be an improved parent. He talks with Jack, and tries to tell him he doesn’t have to do this alone. But Jack is stuck in that rut, and it’s a rut Castiel knows too well. He’s walked these paths and the audience has walked these paths and he can’t let the child handle this alone, though Jack declares it isn’t his choice. Jack has surrendered to what he believes Death commands of him, what the job is.

It’s going to be about choice.

But right now, Jack is too much like his father. And I point back to the Moon, who lets the Sun shine on her face, perceiving the world as a reflection of the Father, of Soul in the eyes of the Mind. This is the path to teach their son to avoid just as much.

Meanwhile, Castiel is punched in the FACE basically by Jack saying not to tell Sam and Dean he’s turning into Soul Bomb Take 2. He doesn’t want to worry them over something he can’t do anything about. Congratulations, Castiel is now living the mirror of Jack knowing the Empty deal and Sam and Dean not being told, and you can SEE the reality of it ALL slam him in the face. Not just because Jack blowing up would negate the point of his sacrifice; I don’t know if that even really plinks his mental armor; but the actual magnitude of that kind of secret.

Burying my clown brain’s fierce desire to talk at length of small details like Cas opting not to wake Dean up in the room, we see a recursion-yet-subversion at the end. 

We cut off, here, abruptly. In context of the episode, we know Castiel has at least learned one lesson and is going to try to tell Dean about his deal. But on some level, this all enmeshes thoroughly to Castiel’s Empty deal. Do I think Cas is going to tell the Empty deal in 16? No, I’m gonna guess on some level Sam gets his hands on it around 17 maybe, or nobody at all finds out--or at least Dean himself doesn’t find out--until 18.

In that time they *still* will not have stopped Chuck, that won’t be until 19. So I really wish this arm flailing about “oh god they’re making it all about Cas saving Jack and then dropping it!” would stop because man guys, I’m tired, I’ve been writing you the roadmap on this for two years and haven’t failed yet, pls listen.

Even after episode 18, Castiel’s role is inevitably going to be to take the burden from Jack. ...And Dean will too, but you won’t really even start to wrap your heads around the how and the why until at *least* 16 covers the Emperor path better in scale of the generational family. That’s going to be a joint thing.

Yes, I’m saying that’s going to be a joint thing after the Empty.

The show has taken a highlighter repeatedly to the fact that Jack was neither ready to rule or remove Chuck and that it was all a bad idea. Like “Then who?!” yes HMMM WHO. 

Who is sitting here following the path of all of these individuals in this very episode? Do I need to gesture people to literal years of Castiel being associated with every one of these women’s central stories in my meta, make everyone read literal compendiums of it to get the where and why, or is it at least enough in the collective subconscious to be recognized?

What is Rowena doing? What is Rowena doing, right now? She unbirthed an entire realm and is restructuring it; where people go only where they deserve to go, where they aren’t as boxed in but certainly aren’t out there being shitheads for the sake of being shitheads. But man, if only there was SOME ONE ELSE lined up on this whole lunar path, somewhere, with these women.

(For more on the blossom, see my Albedo tag)

For the full context and, frankly, mental breakdowns about 15.13 and what all that amounted to, I point you to the tags I linked above in discussion and lead-in to this post, because I’m not going to re-tread that ground right now.

But Castiel’s deal has always been about saving Jack. Castiel has been the Empress all year and before it. He will continue to be the empress, symbolized as feeding her young from her own heart, and--well, like that above gif (and also like 15.09, but with Sam in that generational rotation), receiving the sphere from the Emperor (Dean) and passing it to the new aeon to be reborn. Jack is the new Aeon. the mother will protect this at any cost.

But I don’t know why fandom pole vaults into assuming then that the Emperor suddenly has no place in this fascinatingly interwoven play. They are part of this cooperative birthing process together. Even in and beyond Death. As it is, there’s parts of Jack’s resignation that will inevitably tie to Castiel with Dean in 18.

As always, the case is a warning tale, but just what side of it you take really depends on where the characters choose to step. Is it a warning of man stepping away from god or god changing the rules on man? 

Even Amara’s message is multifaceted: Knowing when to walk away on your own path is not the same as betraying someone. And it’s only going to be by Dean’s manipulation that she would consider it, while he is in fact lying to her; but that’s NOT going to come without a long term price. And frankly, is itself a message for the endgame of this show, with some people thinking taking ones’ own path is tantamount to betrayal. It is not. But what matters it the truth. And the choice. And remembering that we all have a choice.

And what of Cas, after the Empty then?

My soul went to heaven, big surprise.

In order to be in the Occultum, the Occultum must be in you.

To know what he, himself, is also worth, Castiel will have to make that place within himself. And that will also be the place for his child, and his family, and humankind as he has come to adopt as his people.

...But there was a two step phase to that spell and I remind you Rowena wasn’t alone in that image.

The pink of fertile rebirth.

For more on the Empress, click here. 

Anyway

#CASTIELSUTERUS2020

[docholligay]

THis would be a perfect opportunity to say, “It was his job, but it wasn’t right.” 

This makes me think of two things that are only KIND of related to this, but are, also. 

Number one is to what extent do we forgive “Just following orders” I know some of you are quick to say, ‘We don’t” but I mean, yeah, we absolutely fucking do, or every single one of you that works for a health insurance company or bank would be strung up socially. I don’t actually have answer for this! I worked in the legal department for a bank for a couple years, and while I can say I didn’t directly defraud customers or put anyone out into the street, and could even say I made sure bankers followed the goddamn law, at the end of the day, I probably did participate in and assist with a company who I find to basically have no moral compass whatsoever, and sometimes I feel guilty about that. And that’s okay! Guilt helps us to know where our moral center lies. I don’t want to meet the person who never feels any guilt ever. 

But do we forgive the surveyor for doing his job? It’s not a violent post, remember. It’s mostly officious. It’s putting in numbers and mapping and paperwork to assist with an act I think we can all agree is immoral, but where does the personal responsibility of the employee come in? Hm? I think that’s a difficult question, and I don’t really want us to answer it so much as reflect on it. When does the evil act go down far enough to become diluted and forgivable? Do we forgive an SS officer’s personal secretary? Are the people who work in acquisitions for Disney on the guillotine? 

Second! You know, I’m pretty widely familiar with the reservations here, but I KNOW intellectually, without often THINKING about, the fact that I’m not sure which tribes pretty much always lived in Montana. Locally, I know this is now and has basically always been Crow Country, as proudly stated on the signs just outside town. But once we leave the Eastern Plains area, I’m less familiar. Like I know we have Cree folks to the north, but did they start there? I know the Blackfoot were around here by the 1800s, but how much do I actually know about when and how? 

And I know more about the local tribes than your average American! And this isn’t me patting myself on the ass, it’s just because, weirdly, Montana is the only state in the union that has a mandate of Indian Education For All, where we had to learn Native History in school. That, and I live in a state that has a fairly large, for the US, Native population, so I’ve actually like, known Native people, in my life. It’s not from anything but opportunity. Easy opportunity. It’s weird and a touch sad how ignorant we can be of our own history here in the States, and I don’t even mean that in a Howard Zinn “AMERICA WAS BUILT ON SYSTEMATIC OPPRESSION” liberal facebook way, I mean that in a “Please tell me where the South surrendered” and a solid 60% can’t manage that, including a lot of the people screaming about the building of America. It’s just a WOEFUL amount of history education, borne out of equal parts incompetence in how history is taught, but also apathy on the part of those BEING taught. I’ve heard a million people whine about how they weren’t taught something in school, but they sure weren’t intellectually curious enough to go seek out more information about...anything. I know I lay the fact that I can’t fucking tell you jack about when or how the Blackfeet got here SQUARELY at my own fucking feet. 

[littleeyesofpallas]

SO.... HEROINE'S JOURNEY. YA?

There are a few approaches to the Heroine's Journey and they're all a little wonky as fuck.

is to look at old myths about Heroines and find patterns in them, the way Campbell found patterns in Hero myths. Problem here is that there's much less narrative consistency in those, and they're generally a little less common, and so there's not as much of a pattern to distill into a neat little diagram.

is to craft a psychological model for little girls coming of age, akin to the one the Hero's Journey provides for little boys, and work off that. This is nice, but tends to lack the weight and kind of viral catchiness of the mythologically derived formula

is just to genderswap the Hero's Journey, or to put a Heroine through the Hero's Journey as is. These most often fall apart on account of having zero critical assessment of what the plot being acted out is or how it functions. No one learns jack squat, no one grows, and as a shitty cherry on top the plot just looks derivative. (Looking right at you, Force Awakens.)

The old mythic approach is generally ignored for being far too loose. It also tends to revolve around awkward at times sexist narratives of purity and purification as a process, the role of healing, mending and forgiving flawed and often outright antagonistic individuals, preservation and protection of the home, and consequently a lack of real adventure. It very often ends in an ascension to goddess-hood by way of or for the ends of some kind of self sacrifice. I'm not super keen on this for a number of reasons, not the least of which being the narrative trend in which a woman's role is give herself up for the good of others... But worth pointing out here is that the myths that can be referenced that don't fit these themes are so wildly different both from the proposed core formula and even one another that they don't outline a new or alternative trend at all. Women that kick ass in myth absolutely exist, but they tend to be unique rather than formulaic, be that for better or for worse...

Funny enough Zelda: Skyward Sword utilized this in a fascinating way. As Link goes through a very conventional Hero's Journey, really beat for beat, in his pursuit of the missing Princess Zelda he continually gets to the end of a dungeon to find that Zelda was just there, but he missed her and she's moved on. And in fact each time this happens we learn that Zelda had her own reasons for visiting all these temples and sure enough this background plot that Zelda has been acting out is the mythic Heroine's Journey.

Seeing the two acted out in tandem, and showing how the two actually facilitate and serve one another in a bigger picture is actually a really brilliant way to tell these old stories. Zelda's quest has added urgency because we know that as she progresses, the encroaching evil is only barely being beaten back by Link. and Link's Hero's Journey is given new importance because his Meeting with the Goddess isn't just about shipping him with Zelda, it's about saving Zelda from the consequences of her self sacrifice.

The distantly Jungian derived model is actually only as old as 1990 and came about as a centerpiece in a women's self-help book. Maureen Murdock suggests this process:

Shift from feminine to masculine

Identification with the masculine

Road of trials

Experiencing the illusory boon of success

The descent/meeting with the goddess

Yearning for the reconnect

Reconciliation with the masculine

The union

In which the girl has to adopt masculine agency in order to act upon the world in the way man are expected to and girls are not. She adventures with these masculine skills/features at hand. She feels fulfilled by these conquests, but then must face the idea that masculine conquest is not a valid or meaningful kind of accomplishment. She has a conflict of self, dives deep into the self to meet with her own feminine side, now long repressed. She learns to want to be a woman. She confronts the flaws of the masculine pursuit she's been on. She learns to embrace both gendered identities and is at peace.

This thing has so many little bumps and hiccups and things to get caught up on. I'm really not fond of it. It's a product of its time and its writers' predecessors' biases and already kind of misaligned premises. (Btw this is a huge contributing factor to the plot of Revolutionary Girl Utena.)

The second version is generally exemplified in the Heroine's Journey formulated by Victoria Lynn Schmidt. I'll be totally honest, I'm not as familiar with that one. But it was written to more directly mirror Campbell's Hero's Journey in its cyclical nature and use as a writing template (where as Murdock's was decidedly less focused on story telling applications) and it's major pitfall is that it really doesn't seem to have any kind of "universal" mythic origin, and so kind of lacks the punch Campbell's implication of myth speaking to the innate human psyche in the universal familiarity of its trends.

Illusion of the perfect world

Betrayal/disillusionment

The awakening

The descent: passing through the gates of judgment

Eye of the storm

All is lost/death

Support

Rebirth/moment of truth

Return to a new world

Like I said, I'm just less familiar with this one in practice. It doesn't feel like a terrible plot or character arc, and there are aspects of it that I really like, even. But it doesn't really feel like it particularly "fixes" any of the problems at hand with its predecessors.

And the third one, I mentioned is typically just bad and stupid; a creative decision made in pure ignorance. When removed from any psychological context the motions of the plot become meaningless. But a fascinating case of sort of doing it was Disney's Moana. Not because it genderswapped the Campbellian Hero's Journey but because it chose to merge the myth Hero and Heroine's Journey together, and yeah, in which a little genderswapping happened to be involved.

Moana's role is to "stay" and be mother to her people, to protect and preserve, to purify and heal and forgive... BUT in a beautifully deft twist she discovered that preserving her people's way of life means heeding the call to adventure/call of the sea, means venturing into the unknown to learn new things and conquer trials... it means meeting with The God, Maui (instead of the Goddess) means confronting The Mother (Instead of the father) but instead of defeating her like a Hero, healing her like a Heroine. It really beautifully juggles the two cycles in a way that doesn't give either one supremacy over the other, in the truest Reconciliation/Union of proposed masculine and feminine. (Yes, the Te Ka/Te Fiti reveal was 100% a textbook Vader moment.)

But of course the big pitfall this, and the original Hero's Journey fall into is the assumption of some kind of deeply essential gendered aspect of psychology, and not separating elements of biological impulse as they relate to psychology from the heavy HEAVY filter of socialization. On the one hand, I still believe the Hero's Journey, and some variations of the Heroine's Journey(s) can absolutely be utilized in writing in a deeply meaningful and largely accurate and affecting way. But I'm also very much in favor of seeking out alternatives to these in ways that pursue more of that universal appeal that Campbell thought he'd tapped into. But that is yet another rant entirely...

[justkeeptrekkin]

A gift to all my followers!

This is something I whacked out a couple of weeks ago- just a thank you to all my followers who’ve stuck around, or who have just found me within the Good Omens fandom! It means the world to see you guys enjoy my fics. This is my gift to you guys, now that 2019 is coming to a close!

Enjoy! x

***

It’s hard to keep track of time when they're together on a good day. It’s even harder on the best of days. 

The Ritz is busy. The lunch table is inappropriately large for just the two of them. They’re sat right next to each other. Champagne is bitter-sweet on Crowley’s tongue and he could watch Aziraphale for hours, listen to him talking for hours. He measures the way Aziraphale leans towards him with a hand stretched across the table, sharing a story. Eyes bright, typically taut posture unusually relaxed. Entire aura relaxed. The feeling in his own chest, relaxed.

And so it’s harder than usual to keep track of the time. People leave after tea; people arrive for dinner; people leave after dinner. The waiters stare at them from the kitchen doors, waiting for them to ask for the bill, which they don’t. Crowley barely has it in him to glare at them. 

Their knees touch for almost the entire time. 

For Crowley and Aziraphale, time has only ever been a construct. However, it has also, always, been bound by celestial responsibilities. Now, they have no such responsibilities. And they are no longer being watched. 

The sky is darkening just a little when they finally leave. Green Park remains busy at-

Crowley checks the time on his phone.

-Greek Park remains busy at five thirty on a Tuesday night. People line up at the bus stop, heading home from work. Tourist stands filled with union jacks litter the streets outside the park. The colonnade of The Ritz shelters them from a light bit of drizzle. 

Crowley slides his hands into his negligible pockets and considers what comes next. Dining at The Ritz has always comes with a time limit, and somewhere to go immediately afterwards. Some sort of agenda. He doesn’t know what that is now. 

He looks over at Aziraphale, who hovers. Hovers and fiddles with his hands. Gaze flitting about as if he’s nervous, smile flickering on and off as if he doesn’t want Crowley to notice. He makes a feeble attempt at smiling again and gestures to the rain with a small nod. “Lovely weather we’re having, eh?” he says. It’s followed by a shaky half-laugh. 

Crowley frowns at him, the bottom half of his face forming a smile. He feels as if he’s watching the Angel of the Eastern gate, introducing himself at Eden. And something about the sudden awkwardness fills him with intrigue- more than that, anticipation. 

He leans back against a column, hands in pockets, and surveys Aziraphale’s anxious flapping.

“Well, go on, then,” Crowley prompts. “Something’s on your mind.”

“Not on my mind, per se,” Aziraphale concedes. His eyes darting up to the roof of the colonnade, to Heaven- a habit that may take some time to kick. “An idea of sorts.” “You’ve intrigued me,” Crowley drawls. 

“Nothing exciting. Only.” 

The look Aziraphale gives him in the brief moment of hesitation is heart-breaking. It’s filled with hope, and a healthy dollop of apprehension, too. As if Crowley would ever deny him anything. Crowley has experienced these moments of heart-shattering, heart-squashing, heart-pummelling love many times before, and he very much hopes that he’s done an alright job of concealing it from his expression.

He raises his eyebrows at Aziraphale and waits. 

Aziraphale sighs, looking uncomfortable and apparently having no intention of expanding. He expects Crowley to make the move. Unsurprising.

“I could…” Crowley starts. Aziraphale looks at him in hope again. Christ on a bike I’m a pushover, he thinks. “I could. Invite you round to mine for a drink. If… you were thus inclined.” A great beaming smile. “Oh, you took the words right out of my mouth.” Crowley huffs an almost-laugh. They look at each other. And they both let the weight of that sink in. Slowly, like the rain that’s currently seeping into the stone pavement beyond the Ritz’s colonnade. 

“Right,” he announces quickly, before thoughts can escalate any further. “Off we go, then?”

“Yes, just so. Tip top.”

Crowley conjures an umbrella. It’s not as if anyone would have noticed, he tells himself, though he sees the doorman at the Ritz recoil a little in shock. They share its shelter until Aziraphale miraculously hails a cab. 

***

“Best idea you’ve had all week, angel- and that includes the body swapping nonsense.”

Aziraphale is sat on Crowley’s sofa. He has been handed a glass of wine. He holds it between cupped hands like he plans to take communion. His legs are hidden behind a tartan blanket. (Crowley will never admit that he conjured such a thing long, long ago, just in case something like this might happen. Something like Aziraphale staying for a movie night, or even, staying for the night. It had always seemed so unlikely. In fact, the moment he’d created said blanket, Crowley had been so infuriated by his blind hope of ‘having Aziraphale round’ that he’d burned it. 

He’d restored the ashes to its original, tartaned form just a couple of hours later.)

“It seemed like the next logical thing,” Aziraphale explains pensively, brows raised and peering down into his Malbec. “If I had a ‘to do’ list, this is what I would put on it. I haven’t sat down and watched a movie all the way through in such a long time.” This may well be true, Crowley considers, as he rifles through his DVD collection, knees against polished concrete and painted nails tapping the spine of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Meanwhile, he’s simply marvelling at the fact that they’ve never sat down and watched a movie all the way through together, the two of them, ever. They’d always had more important things to be getting on with, like saving the world or performing miracles or negotiating the terms of their Agreement. And now. Now they can-

Now they can what?

He looks back over his shoulder at Aziraphale. Aziraphale is looking at him. The angel’s gaze flicks away instantly, staring back down into his wine. It hurts something in his chest. A nice kind of hurt, like a dash too much wasabi. 

Crowley takes a moment to recover from this. Then- “You. You still haven’t given me any clues. What you in the mood for, angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen for the briefest moment as if he’s alarmed by this question, for whatever reason. Then he frowns to himself, purses his lips in thought. Casts his eyes around the room, for inspiration. “Something…” “If you say nice,” Crowley warns, knees hurting a little on the hard floor. 

“I wasn’t going to,” Aziraphale retorts. He pauses. He adds, more quietly, “I was going to say fun.”

Crowley groans. Turns to the DVD cabinet.

“I don’t do fun,” he says slowly, emphatically. 

“Alright, well. Something at least a bit light-hearted. I think saving the world rather calls for it, don’t you?” Crowley tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “It’s a fair point,” he concedes to himself more than Aziraphale. Pouts. “Don’t want to bring the mood down. Not sure I’d want to…”

The reason he doesn’t finish his sentence is because he’s just been, unfortunately, reacquainted with the more mushy end of his DVD collection. He’d forgotten that he has several Audrey Heburn films, as well as a couple of Julia Roberts classics. He glares at them. Hidden amongst the arthouse silent movies, they’re betraying just how soft he is. And Aziraphale’s watching.

The DVD boxes quiver under his stare. 

“How about we start with discussing what you have,” Aziraphale tries, reasonably. “Since we can’t reach a consensus. We don’t even have to watch a DVD if you don’t want-”

“Netflix,” Crowley remembers, standing up abruptly and immediately closing the cabinet. Then, “Netflix! That’s a thing. That’s a thing that we can do.” “Oh yes- I’ve heard of that,” Aziraphale says chirpily. 

“Oh, yes, well done, angel.”

Aziraphale glares. 

And so the Netflix loading screen bongs into life, Crowley collapsing onto the sofa beside Aziraphale. The red wine is jostled; Aziraphale tuts. Crowley props his heels on the coffee table. 

“Do you mind. I almost spilled Malbec on my shirt.” “Lots more choices now,” Crowley ignores him and begins flicking through. “Look, it’s all organised nicely in rows of genre. Love how tidy this is, look. And the search function is so much easier. Have you tried the search function on Amazon Prime, lately? Nightmare.” “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale replies lightly, spinning the wine in his glass like a whirlpool.

“Look, ‘s’got a whole section called ‘light-hearted movies’.” 

“Very helpful.”

They flick through the row. They go through all of them without choosing, and end up at the beginning of the loop again. Crowley growls and hangs his head off the back of the sofa.

“Oh, pass it here,” Aziraphale sighs, putting down his wine with a decisive clink and picking up the remote. He holds it with one hand and presses the directional buttons with his other hand, as if it’s far more complicated and delicate a process than it actually is. Like an octogenarian trying to use an iPhone.  

“How about this lovely looking Christmas film.“

"N- no. Anything but that. It’s October. And more importantly, no.”

“It looks ever so sweet, though. How lovely and romantic-”

“We are not watching The Christmas fucking-well Prince.”

He’d had a hand in inspiring that, and he’s too embarrassed to admit it even to himself. His evil deeds really are shit. 

“No need to snap,” Aziraphale mutters.  

“If you’re determined to watch something romantic and seasonal, I will accept The Holiday. If I must. Jack Black makes it bearable.”

Aziraphale lets the screen rest on the thumbnail of the movie. Then, quite thoughtfully, he says: “I like Kate Winslet. She seems like a nice woman.”

“Mm. Yeah, that’s. OK. I’m sure she is, angel.”

In all honesty, the idea of watching a rom-com with Aziraphale is border-line torture. It’s not quite as bad as waterboarding, but it’s close. More on the same level as those nightmares you get where you have to do a maths exam in your underwear, on stage, and all of your exes and crushes point and laugh at you. Not only are rom-coms pretty hit and miss- some influenced by Heaven, some by Hell, you never know what you’re going to get- they’re also a fantastic way of making Crowley feel incredibly exposed. Incredibly hot in the face from second-hand embarrassment. Incredibly aware that he’s meant to be sneering and heckling, when he’s just trying to concentrate on holding himself together. Stop the feelings from spurting out of his heart like water in a dam: feelings that he thinks are, embarrassingly, rather a lot like longing.

And yet, because it is Crowley, and this is what Crowley does, he lets Aziraphale select the movie and they watch The Holiday. They remark on the general cheesiness, the (at times) witty dialogue. The staggering amount of disbelief that has to be suspended for the plot to work. How nice Jude Law looks in glasses. 

Crowley’s only sort of watching. He’s concentrating on Aziraphale. Not outright staring at him (although he does often do that, it’s a wonder he hasn’t noticed and told Crowley to sod off). Rather, letting his brain tick over the knowledge that he is right beside him. Too much of his daft, devil mind is unable to ignore the fact that Aziraphale is there. 

Sometimes, it sends unhelpful thoughts his way. Like, you could touch his hand. Or, imagine feeding him popcorn- wouldn’t that be interesting. Or simply, there he is. He’s here. He’s with you. He’s chosen this. 

About half-way through the film, Aziraphale starts with those sad sighing sounds, making woebegone eyes at the television- which tells Crowley that he’s getting peckish but doesn’t want to bother Crowley with it. So, Crowley casually announces that he’s heard there’s a good new Chinese restaurant around the corner, and Aziraphale brightens up again immediately. And they have to pause the film to choose what to eat, because Crowley reckons he might actually order something for himself this time, and Aziraphale ums and ahs about these things for hours anyway. And once they’ve ordered- over the app, thank God for avoiding human interaction- the food arrives, quite miraculously, three minutes later. 

And once the food is gone, the film is almost finished. And Netflix seems to have decided what they should watch next, because it puts on the first episode of The Crown without asking them. Which they watch, although Crowley’s not really watching. And Aziraphale is complaining about the inaccuracies. 

And at some point they end up sitting very close.

No. That makes it sound as if Crowley has no idea how they ended up that close. He knows exactly when this happened, because he hasn’t taken a breath since. 

It happened like this.

They’re halfway through the first episode of The Crown, and Aziraphale has returned from the kitchen with a new bottle of red- a Pinot, this time- and he pours for both him and Crowley. Aziraphale has been sat on his own side of the sofa, and Crowley has been on his, draping his arms and legs wherever he sees fit. Now, as Aziraphale resettles on the sofa, he sits right beside him. The way Crowley is angled, his legs dangling off the arm of the sofa, means that he’s leaning in Aziraphale’s direction. Very obviously. 

So he’s using all his (very little) core strength to keep himself sitting upright enough not to fall into his lap. Even if it would be very nice to let his head rest on Aziraphale’s lap. And even if he’d really like to relax a little bit and lean his shoulder against Aziraphale’s. 

And for Heaven’s sake, it shouldn’t be an issue for a couple of six thousand year old beings to sit side-by-side on a sofa, and yet, here’s Crowley, having a crisis about it. It’s not as if he thought twice about pinning him against a wall. 

Although he probably should have. That was a lot.

His eyes follow the way Aziraphale’s legs stretch in front of him, crossed over at the ankles. A little slouched on the sofa, shoes off. It’s about as relaxed as Crowley’s ever seen him. 

“Why do you think they decided to make this TV series now, when the Queen is still alive,” Aziraphale remarks. It almost makes Crowley jump a little, so deep in thought that he’d forgotten time hadn’t stopped entirely.

“Whassat?” “Well, why do you think they’ve made the series now? It seems a bit-”

“Right,” Crowley says brain finally processing the question. “No- dunno, angel.” They both go quiet. Crowley’s hand grips the back of the sofa. The fear that he’s going to slip and lean against Aziraphale is too real. As nice as it would be-

Perfect. Miraculous. Wonderfully human. 

-It would also be mortifying. 

He can hear Aziraphale’s breathing. Slow. Precise and even, like he’s measuring out ingredients for a recipe. It makes Crowley’s mouth go dry with painful self-awareness.

“Do you remember,” Aziraphale starts quietly, “when you and I bumped into each other in Camden Town?” He takes a few seconds to pretend to think about this. “Yeah, ‘f course. Nineteen seventy-seven. What made you think of that?” Aziraphale shifts a little, looking at Crowley. Crowley doesn’t look back, watches the screen. If he turns towards Aziraphale, they’ll be-

“You were wearing that awful t-shirt.” That makes him laugh. A tipping-the-head-back laugh. “Oh yeah- my God Save the Queen t-shirt. Sex Pistols. Yeah, those were the days. Don’t knock ‘em, they were a good band.” “I’m sure they were.” “Don’t use that voice, they were. Anarchic music at its finest.” “I believe you, but bebop is still a little too baffling for me, I’m afraid.”

Crowley doesn’t expect it. He doesn’t know where it comes from- he thought he knew himself quite well at this point, but apparently not well enough. He feels something take over from out of nowhere. Rather, feels something erase everything else- a whiteboard rubber cleaning all the bullshit away. 

And now he’s turned to Aziraphale without the babbling voice of anxiety in his head. 

“It’s punk music, not bebop. And. I reckon you’d like it.” His voice is a murmur and his eyes are looking at Aziraphale’s lips. Thank Christ for sunglasses. 

When he looks back up and meets Aziraphale’s gaze, he’s watching Crowley. Looking for something. 

He feels his lips part, hears himself take a breath through his mouth. 

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale asks weakly. A small quirk in one eyebrow. 

“Y-” Fucking Hell. His throat’s all dry and he’s forgotten what words are. And now Aziraphale is definitely looking at his mouth. Fuck fuck fuck fu- “Yeah. You’re a rebel now, after all. Sort of. Breaking all those rules.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies in a whisper. Then, regaining his voice, “I suppose that’s true.”

“S- uh- mm- w- some of the songs, anyway, not all of them. You’d uh- h- some of them are a bit explicit than others and you’d probably not. Not get on with those ones.”

“Crowley…?” That’s all it takes. Thousands of years of keeping his feelings to himself and taking it slow, and all it takes is that little inflection in Aziraphale’s hushed voice. That hesitant request, draped over the sound of his name. Crowley leans in and presses his lips gently against Aziraphale’s. 

There’s that horrible moment when it stops, and everything else seems to stop, too. The what next? hangs in the air and Aziraphale stutters a shaky breath against Crowley’s skin. 

“Too fast?” is what Crowley ends up asking. Just to break the pause. 

And then the most dazzling, drunken smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face. Brows knit together. An expression that looks a lot like “To the world.” 

“No,” he half laughs, shaking his head infinitesimally. “For once, no. We… we saved the world, I rather think we deserve this.”

Something in Crowley relaxes, unhinges, collapses. It lets all the feelings free and they flood him till he swears he almost goes blind. And that is how they both end up falling asleep on the sofa, still wearing the days’ clothes and kicking off a tartaned blanket. Wrapped up in each other- starting this new era as they mean to continue.

***

Crowley wakes up and finds his head on Aziraphale’s chest. He’s splayed on top of him, arm hanging off the edge of the sofa. He feels Aziraphale’s hand, warm between his shoulder blades. 

“What would you like to do today?” Aziraphale asks with a smile in his voice. 

That is how it starts. They think of the things they were too scared to do together, the things that they never found the time to do together, the things they always liked to do together. 

They go for a walk through Hampstead Heath, just as the weather’s beginning to turn- their breathes steaming in front of their faces as they walk. They haven’t been here since 1815. They both try to avoid the muddy parts and fail spectacularly. They make fun of each other for the mess they’ve made of their shoes. They begin by hooking their fingers together, until they’re brave enough to hold hands completely. 

They go home and cook together. It goes disastrously. 

“What are we doing today?” Crowley asks the next morning, when they wake up on Crowley’s sofa again. 

They go to some hipster bar in East London- Tobacco Docks, it’s called. They find that there’s good food, lots of good booze and an ice rink- which Crowley absolutely point-blank refuses to go on until Aziraphale makes that wide-eyed, pleading face. They have a tipsy and very clumsy skate around the rink before returning to their drinks. Crowley’s better at wine than ice rinks. 

“What are we doing today?” Aziraphale asks, when they’ve woken up in Crowley’s bed. His white hair against his white sheets. A new part of the landscape of his room.

They end up doing very little. They read together on the sofa and make tea.  Crowley introduces Aziraphale to the best music ever created- disco, of course. They dance in the living room in bare feet and laugh till they can’t see through the tears. 

“What are we doing today?” Crowley asks the next morning. 

“What are we doing today?” Aziraphale asks the next. 

They’ve saved the world, and that still seems surreal. But there’s waking up on Crowley’s sofa after a movie marathon, too. A dinner date, or a night in. 

And that feels perfectly real. 

[misskittysmagicportal]

The Dog Days Are Over

Nathan Young kinda fluff.  Safe for work other than a word or two.  Takes place a few years after the events of “Vegas Baby”

Nathan leaned with one elbow against the makeshift bar to the side of the dancefloor.  A look of minor drunken denial on his face and a self-filling champagne flute in his left hand. He watched as Louise and her new husband, the one and only Jeremy, saw only each other as they swayed to “Songbird” by Fleetwood Mac. Had to admit his mum had never been as happy as she was at this moment.

You made your way through the guests to stand beside Nathan. The last time you saw each other was somewhere between the end of his ASBO and when he met Marnie. A twinge of jealousy ran through your body as you ordered a whiskey sour loud enough for him to hear.

“Nathan?” you feigned shock.

He raised his glass, “Fucking brilliant!  Was trying to figure out who I was gonna give the toss about tonight.”

You rolled your eyes but blushed at the same time, “Remains to be seen. I see you wore high tops to Lou’s wedding.”

Nathan tossed back the golden liquid and manifested more,“Figured tops and tails was a bit much.  Didn’t want to outshine the man Mum lives with. I know you fancy what I threw together right?” he slowly ran his hand over the length of a lithe body outfitted in a white dress shirt, a blue and green tartan vest and black skinny jeans.

The fire reached your ears as you followed his movement downwards, but then you remembered yourself.  “I honestly didn’t even know you could grow facial hair,” you retorted with a soft shrug. 

Without a second thought, Nathan snapped his fingers and it was gone.  Goatee, mustache, poof!  Clean shaven.  Your eyes wide with shock and disbelief.  “Better?” his eyebrow cocked. 

“How.. I thought you were immortal,” you mocked his accent playfully.

“C’mon why have just ONE A list power when you can have two?” he snapped his fingers again to regrow the mustache and beard.  “Magics aside, how’ve you been, love?”  His green eyes never left the couple on the dance floor.

“Well I finished my degree and I work for a book publisher now.  Shocking, I know.  People actually still read books despite Kindles and Nooks.  How about you?”  you matched his laissez faire position.  Your legs crossed at the ankles as you leaned back against the bar, the hem of your dress rode up in the process.  

This time Nathan turned to look directly in your eyes.  “Meat group in a prison cell.”

You glanced heavewards with slight confusion, “Oh bullshit!  You were there what? Two weeks tops before they deported you.”

“FINE!  Just a bit of a dessert,” he winked and swiveled his hips a bit. “Honing my magic tricks though.  Quite good at it now if you haven’t noticed.  Ten quid I can make that dress disappear,” he leaned in to whisper in your ear.

Your heart started to pound in your ear, but you faced him.  Your nose and his just a breadth away from one another.  “Like Marnie did?” 

Nathan grabbed his chest dramatically, “Low blow sweetheart.  Was thinking more like my cock inside you.”  He took one last swig of the champagne and slammed the glass down. He turned to you, grabbed your face and pulled you into an awkward and sloppy kiss.  His tongue pushing inside your mouth briefly before he broke away and staggered backwards.  Then Nathan hooked his thumbs through the sides of his vest, eyes ablaze with mischief  “Pardon me, but I have a speech to make.”

You were dizzy with excitement, the blood had rushed to areas that you were convinced others would notice.  Yet not one set of eyes were on you, only Nathan who now stood directly in the center of the room between Louise and Jeremy. They had somewhere between worry and terror in their eyes.  

Nathan’s hands were raised with palms outwards towards the guests. He swayed slightly before another snap of his fingers.  The room, the guests, even the music all halted.  The room became eerily quiet except the sounds of breathing.  Louise and Jeremy seemed rooted to their very spots.  You watched as a slow smirk spread across Nathan’s lips as he waved his hands a bit as if he was dismissing servants.  The crowd gasped as full glasses appeared suddenly in their hands out of nowhere.  Not just of liquor, but all together.  Where people weren’t holding them before.

“Dearly beloved!” Nathan slurred.  “You have all gathered here today to celebrate the union of my Mum and the guy she lives with.”  A pregnant pause.  “Now as you all may or may not know, Louise here.  My darling Mummy.  I do love you, you know.  You did put aside so much of your life to raise me.  I was, to put it so bluntly, a right little cunt.” 

You narrowed your eyes from the sidelines.  The blood pumped deafeningly in your ears as you held your face in your hands.  All eyes were transfixed on your ex lover as he continued whether they had a choice or not.

Nathan’s index finger swung around precariously in a circle.  “I mean you have told your mates here about Jezza’s little secret right?  All of your friends that showed up at my funeral.  The friends you told I was on Holidays in America when you heard I went to jail, right Louise?  You love me, in your own way I suppose.  Your little embarrassment.  Your grown adult embarrassment now.”

You gawked as Louise went to speak, to stop her son, but nothing could escape her lips.  You rushed forward and into the center of everything to take Nathan’s free hand in your own.  “There’s no reason to do this?  Not today.  Please?”  You plead with him as you pressed your hand to his cheek.  

Nathan leaned into it for just a moment, eyes closed and body relaxed.  Time stopped, everything stopped.  A spotlight on just you and he in the midst of hundreds of eyes.  You wrap your arms around each other in a hug, his hands with a mind of their own move over the curves of your backside in front of everyone.  His chin comes to rest on your head as you bury your face in his chest. 

 “Let’s go,’ you looked up at him as you clutched the lapel of his shirt.  “C’mon.  Fancy a shag?  For old time’s sake.  I’ll do that thing you like.”

Nathan cocked an eyebrow; his eyes bored into you.  “All fours?”

You nodded, finally realizing there was an actual bubble around the two of you out on the floor.  A legit cone of silence that blocked you and here from the now lively wedding all around.  As if a spell had been broken as long as the two of you were together.   

Nathan smiled wickedly and covered your mouth with his in a passionate kiss.  Tongue forcing inside of your mouth again as he squeezed your backside.  He started to grind his hips into yours, a slight erection inside of his pants.  

“I just have to do one more thing.”  

You sighed, smiling and pulled at your lip where he had just been.  “Ok” you were drunk with desire.  Ignorant of what was about to happen and the illusion he had constructed while you were in the bubble.

The silence was deafening once more as you gasped.  Now the world froze except for you and Nathan.  His arm tight around your waist.  The guests unmoving like mannequins, glossed eyes.

“It does make some part of me happy to know that dog is truly a woman's best friend,” his speech picked up where he had left off.  As if not one second had skipped between his admonishment of Louise and this very moment.  “And Louise darling, you certainly did pick a dog!”

Just like that, Nathan’s large hand grabbed yours and he snapped his fingers one more time.  To your utter disbelief Jeremy morphed into a Jack Russell terrier right in front of your eyes.  In pops across the crowd men turned one by one into various types of dogs.  Louise and the women all screamed in shock.

But you couldn’t even wrap your brain around what was happening as Nathan broke into a run as you trailed behind struggling to keep up in your heels.  His laughter maniacal but also catching and you couldn’t help but join in.

“I always hated fucking weddings”

[mevekagvain]

Chapter 121 - I hope none of the birds affected by the sleeping gas died from falling from a height, especially if they fell on concrete. I don't think the gas itself would affect the birds but it also very well might since they can't handle as much due to being much smaller animals or from not being able to handle the chemicals used.

Chapter 122 - Shark's expressions are so hideous 🤢

- At least Raizel knows how to be nice by sharing food lmao. Frankenstein beaming like a proud father of a 2-year-old who's doing that is definitely not praxis though.

Chapter 124 - Shark being astounded that nobles care about innocents is amusing. I suppose that aside from the Elders, the Union members think nobles consider other species to be inferior or like cockroaches or toys.

- Although I do find Frankenstein plotting to teach Seira cooking so she can cook for Raizel when he can't extremely funny, I do also find it somewhat disturbing. He's essentially making a teen girl do child labour. Yes she and Regis are imposing on him and I do think they should be doing some manner of chores, but making her cook lavish meals? I also know she's doing it willingly but it still makes me cringe since something being one's choice doesn't negate it being bad. And yes technically she's 'of age' since she's 217, whatever that means since she's still obviously a teen compared to Raizel who actually is an adult going to school with children (which is a whole other can of worms), but aside from her position as clan leader she's very obviously not viewed as an adult by most.

Chapter 125 - On one hand I'd love to get a front row seat to the internal drama within the DA-5 lile M-21 but otoh I don't want to die a painful death or get beaten up.

- So like obviously Seira knows that Raizel and Frankenstein aren't ordinary humans unlike Regis but it is hilarious to think she just told the truth to two men she thinks are frail innocent humans.

Chapter 127 - You'd really think that the Union would be investing more into memory altering drugs but nah. The only ones they have will also fuck your brain up. Really not a good idea when most of your agents/experiments obviously have been administered aforementioned drugs. If it was only used sparingly on civilians I'd get it but it's quite widespread so...

Chapter 128 - As much as Frankenstein complains about the mess the kids make, he enjoys having them over as much as Raizel does. Soft hearted bastard.

Chapter 130 - The girls bandaging M-21 up even as Regis fights has them being smarter than like 90% of other characters in media. They're the real reason he didn't hit the dust immediately smh.

Chapter 132 - I still think the coming of age ceremony has a 50% chance of actually being them ingesting drugs that are the equivalent of stat boosting items in games but also ya know, real world drugs that fuck you up. The other 50% is just them getting much stronger after they turn 200 because their bodies are just like that and it truly is purely ceremonial and a fun tradition like children's day or girl's day or birthdays rather than something that actually affects them.

- Lol Kranz, Regis won't be leaving a corpse if he dies. Purebloods are just special like that. Can you imagine if they did see a pureblood dying? They'd regret killing them so bad.

Chapter 133 - Raizel commanding Frankenstein to stop his experiments is definitely something, like bro maybe he was figuring out electrolysis, not like you know what he was doing. Plus it's not like Frankenstein listened completely. Man has a lab under his house and it wasn't built after Raizel woke. I guess he only stopped modification experiements on others and only did checkups on himself but didn't stop experimenting for other stuff like idk, better fertiliser.

- Kinda amazing Takeo didn't get stabbed in the heart.

Chapter 137 - I know it's just because Gejutel likely explained the lord's powers to him but the idea that Regis knows what a blood field is because Raskreia does demonstrations to entertain little kids is making me giggle.

Chapter 140 - So the Union only came upon Frankenstein's research 540 years ago... that's only 40 years before Raskreia became lord. Interesting.

- Ah yes... the classic joke of Tao not teaching Takeo korean properly. It's also very amusing envisioning Tao teaching the DA-5 members korean.

- ARIS ARIS ARIS. God she looks adorbs. Also I love her referring to DA-5 as 'my children' and 'my babies'. Aris >>> all other scientists. Amd hi Yuri :)

Chapter 141 - Yuri listening to Aris insulting Crombel repeatedly,,, he probably enjoys every aspect of it from knowing she's not aware he's his underling to being able to hear someone insult Crombel.

- Once again union members don't know jack shit. They think werewolves are extinct while Maduke and Lunark are literally Elders 😭🤡😭

- Werewolves having a small population never made sense to me even with the whole thing about them not having mind control and thus keeping away from humans secretly since even civilians are stronger than humans on average but like why tf would wolves have such a low reproduction rate? And that's why I hc that 90% of them are just homosexual.

Chapter 142 - D doesn't consume your lifeforce bro. That's just the drugs causing heavy strain on the body, etc etc. The rest of your explanation was fine but talking about lifeforce or vitality makes no sense.

- We all know Yuri's smart but the fact that he tries to get Frankenstein as a subject by scouting him first is very clever. It's believable too since Frankenstein is supposed to be quite handsome.

Chapter 144 - Well we don't know of Crombel microchips his Assassination Squad but Aris canonically microchips her experiments 🤣

Chapter 147 - Okay but this panel... she's hot. I'd let her dissect me <3

- If this was some other media I'd talk about the symbolism of the attack looking like a rapier and go on for a paragraph but this is Noblesse so it's obviously just a coincidence lmao.

- "A living robot" so like... a cyborg.

Chapter 148 - Yuri getting pissed at being attacked and retaliating but pretending it was him being loyal to Aris... Love it. Also he must be really confused as to who tf Frankenstein is since as one of Crombel's most important lackeys he'd definitely know about such a powerful experiment under him if they existed and thus unlike Aris knows that he's not been sent by Crombel.

Chapter 149 - Yup def confused, especially when he realises Frankenstein's power is like Crombel's.

Chapter 150 - Girlboss,,, also it's been years and I'm still wondering... why is her outfit like that? Neon genesis evangelion girlboss does have a ring to it though.

- Ah yes, Taivra time.

Chapter 151 - Okay yeah I feel so bad for Takeo but also Aris is so good at manipulating him and and and iwi. The fact that she can cry on command though... impressive.

- "From the beginning you were an only child. That's why I got you to experiment on." Okay cool time to ignore that again for my own amusement of having all of noblesse's named modified human women be related to Takeo.

- Okay I'm obsessed with strawberry milk myself but strawberries do not taste anywhere near that good. Not even the sweet ones.

Chapter 153 - Yeah no I don't agree that Takeo losing his will to live is an insult to your comrades M-21. You could have said all that in a gentler way. Just because Takeo was luckier than you experiment wise doesn't mean you get to be so rude.

Chapter 154 - M-21 misleading Tao and Takeo to thinking he's being experimented on and then turning around to laugh at them when they find out it's just ramyeon... mood.

- I really do wonder what 12th Elder's military medals are for.

Sidenotes - Hammer being smart <3 I honestly didn't remember that part of him and I'm glad he's not given purely negative traits. He's the only reason Shark lived past 2 chapters tbh.

- Truly, D is one of the worst letters of the alphabet to have named the drugs DA-5 uses. The other bad choice would be P. On the opposite end of the spectrum, T would have been a great choice for the irony. Not that it matters since the inspiration for the drug from name to physical transformation is obviously 🍆

- Nobles being so nonchalant about murder is kinda fucked up like yeah they suck but you can't just kill them??? Lukedonia my beloved your justice system sucks. I do hc they can't just do this in Lukedonia though or to other nobles even if outside of Lukedonia, it's just that the jurisdiction of nobles doesn't apply outside of Lukedonia and they do on some level think of themselves as a superior species so they're fine with just... killing people.

- Aris obsessing over handsome men as experiments and treating them like toys but ignoring women altogether? Not experimenting on women? Gaslight gatekeep girlboss,,, a feministe of our own,,, perhaps even a... lesbienne. But yeah I just love how she acts and I love her and how she interacts with Yuri. And yeah he's cool too.

- Tbh aside from how short the skirts are and the white blazers, the Ye Ran uniform really reminds me of my own school's uniform. The colours are exactly the same. We just didn't have blazers since it was a forever summer tropical country, only jumpers for if it got too cold in the air conditioned rooms. And for some people who grow up in tropical countries... 25°C can be too cold.

[katrandomwrites]

Wierdly Human

Alternate title was "Jon the Archivist is Kinda Hot"

Little in between snippets from the assistants and their impressions of Jonathan Sims.

I declare this a fluff and humor only zone! Episode 160 can kiss my butt.

You can also find this on AO3 under the same title.

I got the inspiration for this from a tumblr post about Jon being a clean boy despite crawling through hell and back but I think the writer deleted it because I spent forever looking for it and couldn't find it :n: Also 2 Drink Jon is a reference to 2 other fics I've read so his wild ass is not mine.

Supplemental Headcanons at the end.

--

Pre-Show

There was somebody new at the Institute. 

He was short and dark with black hair neatly trimmed and styled. A pair of browline glasses perched in front of wide brown eyes that seemed to absorb everything around him.

“Hey, uh, Tim,” Martin whispered as he leaned over to where his coworker was digging through a drawer, “Who’s that?”

“Hm?” Tim’s eyes widened as he looked up, “Oh shit, he’s cute.”

“Not helpful, Tim.”

“Um, I think he might be Daniel’s replacement. I think his name is Joe or something,” Tim swallowed, “I wonder what modeling agency Bouchard raided for him.”

Martin elbowed him in the ribs hard, his face going as red as his hair, “Shut up!”

“But look at him, Martin! He has to have a skincare routine an hour long and don’t tell me you didn’t notice that those trousers are bloody tailored. I see you looking at his arse!”

“SHUT UP!”

”What are you two fighting about now?”

Both researchers jumped away from each other as Sasha popped up behind them.

“Hot new guy,” Tim said, earning another jab and a hiss.

Sasha looked at Martin and grinned, “Short, scrawny, Persian, and angry?”

“He’s Persian?” Martin stuttered before slapping a hand over his mouth.

“Yeah, I got to talk to him during his follow up interview. Smart guy but kind of grumpy and super awkward. We got talking about foriegn food and he offered to give me his grandma’s recipe for chelow kababs,” Sasha said.

“What’s his name.” Tim asked, looking back at where the new guy was glaring at a row of filing cabinets with several drawers ajar.

“Jonathan Sims.”

--

Pre Episode 44

Basira watched as Sims limped away with the tape clutched to his chest like a lifeline before sighing and heading out to the car where Daisy was waiting.

“Well?” Daisy asked, “How’s our favorite murderer?”

Basira swatted her feet off the dash, “He looks like he hasn’t slept in 3 weeks and recently got hit by a car.”

“I wasn’t asking about his nasty, worm-eaten face, Basira,” Daisy said, “Does he know we’re watching him?”

“I don’t think so -put your seatbelt on- it seems like he’s more invested in what’s on those tapes for now. I get the feeling he’s more worried about watching the people he works with than us.”

“What a sad little librarian. I’m looking forward to how he managed to kill Robinsen without getting his ass whipped.”

“She was old.”

“Yeah, but Sims looks like he’d get knocked out by a light breeze even before he got munched on by some nasty fucking bugs. Did you see the surveillance from Robinsen’s initial investigation? I went back through to track Sims and watched him struggle move a box that was in front of a filing cabinet for a solid twenty minutes; the big ginger guy had to move it for him.”

“That’s-” Basira snorted, “That’s pathetic.”

Daisy grinned, “He has to be one manipulative bastard to get anything done.”

“Is that your theory?”

“I mean look at you.”

“What about me?”

“He gives you the puppy eyes once and now you’re smuggling him tapes from the evidence locker? I have never known the great Basira Hussain to ever cave to a suspect’s wishes in my life- and don’t say it’s to keep a closer eye on him. We have less illegal tactics for that.”

Basira opened her mouth to argue but found that Daisy had a point. She really only gave into suspects if the circumstances were dire. This was technically classed as a low priority case.

What was going on here? 

--

Post Episode 76

Melanie flopped dramatically onto Georgie's couch and let out a long winded sigh.

"Oh?" Georgie asked from the kitchen door.

Melanie sat up slightly to let her sit down before plopping her head down on Georgie's thigh, "I had to go talk to Sims at the Institute again."

"How's Jon?"

"A fucking bastard is what he is."

"Well I knew that," Georgie laughed, gently beginning to brush through Melanie's hair with her fingers.

"I don't know, he's was wierdly defensive and I think he was trying to gaslight me about one of his new assistants."

Georgie paused her brushing, "I haven't seen Jon in a while but that seems… out of character for him. He's a grump, sure, but I've never known him to be a bully -on purpose that is."

"Yeah, well…"

The pair lapsed into a tense silence.

"Would it make you feel better if I show you a picture of Jon in university that he is very embarrassed about," Georgie ventured after a few minutes, "He's still mad I have it.~"

Melanie twisted her head back and grinned, instantly breaking the tension and sitting up to look at the phone screen presented to her.

On it was a picture of Jon passed out, mouth wide open and drooling, on the ugliest couch she'd ever seen.

"He still owns that couch by the way," Georgie said. Melanie waved a hand in her face to silence her as she took in the details.

Jon was in a pink crop top that Melanie was sure she'd seen in Georgie's closet, union jack boxers, gladiator sandals, and The Admiral was planted square on his chest, though he was about half the size of the fluffball that roamed the flat now. Surrounding them where piles of papers and books on the paranormal.

Melanie began to cackle.

"Our friend group used to call him '2 Drink Jon' and this was after he'd done four shots in the kitchen and decided to lecture us on how ghosts are bullshit and he could beat one in a fist fight," Georgie elaborated, "I'm still not sure when he ended up in that outfit but honestly, if we had recorded his rant he probably could have used it for his Masters thesis."

Melanie wheezed into her shoulder as tears began to stream down her face.

"2 Drink Jon was actually a lot more charismatic than sober Jon. This one time he almost had us convinced that he could talk to plants after two gin and tonics, granted we were also drunk but-,"

"Stop, please," Melanie wheezed, "I'm dying."

"Gosh, one of these days I'll have to tell you about tequila and the alien conspiracy. Randall could almost recite the whole speech from memory."

Melanie fell off the couch.

--

Post Episode 109

Julia and Trevor exchanged a look as the Archivist powered through the spiciest Thai food they could find without even breaking a sweat. 

It was supposed to be a joke, spiking Jon's food, the cashier had even given them a panicked look at the restaurant and Trevor's eyes had been watering the whole way back to the safe house. They'd even waited by the door in case Jon tried to make a break for the case of water bottles in the car but he just unwrapped the plastic fork and dug in without even asking for a drink.

Julia picked at her own food but couldn't quite manage to eat it and glanced back at Jon, "Are you sure you don't need a water or anything?"

Jon looked up for a moment, his eyes were more alive than they had been all day and practically sparkled in the shitty fluorescent light. He shook his head and instead reached for another packet of chili sauce to add to his food.

"What the hell is he," Trevor whispered to Julia in horror.

"I don't know but he's definitely not normal."

--

During Episode 132

Daisy had misjudged Jon. She'd grossly misjudged him.

She flexed her fingers around his, ignoring the way the sand dug into her skin, and gently pulled him closer. The man she'd called prey gave her a soft smile and compiled, pressing against her side like she'd never held a knife to his throat, like she hadn't just admitted to planning his murder before she was trapped here.

Daisy turned her head awkwardly and dug her face into his shoulder savoring the human contact, her tears soaking into his shirt.

The Hunt in her blood tried to sing, tried to fight the Buried, "Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect", it echoed faintly.

Jon said something and began to move, pulling Daisy forward along with him.

"Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect"

Hours past as they shimmied through the coffin, the pain of being scraped and crushed was overpowered by the sheer ecstasy of moving more than an inch every few days.

"Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect"

There was a door, Jon tucked himself under her arm and pulled her up the stairs to the blinding lights of the institute. She ducked her head down to his shoulder again and grimaced as her joints popped and groaned.

"Jon, you stupid idiot! What did you think-"

Daisy looked up to the person she thought she’d never see again and smiled.

"Hi."

--

Post Episode 132

Martin had horrible timing really. He just needed to pee, was that really too much to ask?

Of course it was. The universe hated him.

So instead of slipping into the private bathroom upstairs which was magically broken, he had to go down a level and walk in on Jon shaking dirt out of his clothes.

Martin was going to die here but at least he'd die happy.

Jon didn't even seem to register that someone else had joined him (thank the Lonely) so Martin took a second to sneak a guilty look before darting back out and hiding for 40 years.

Jon was painfully thin. Martin got the idea that he could count every vertebrae and rib if he was allowed and even at a glance he could spot the sunken area where at least one rib was now missing.

Worm scars and burns were peppered up his back along with a few moles and freckles. Little red marks circled his chest in a way that Martin immediately recognized as being from the black fabric crumpled at Jon's feet.

And to top it all off, much to Martin's delight, were a set of three black gears tattooed down Jon's right shoulder blade. Sasha had mentioned once that she had gone out for drinks with Jon when he first started and they'd managed to get on the topic of tattoos. Tim had spent months trying to get Jon to show it to him before 'giving up'.

Martin stepped out and stood in the hall for a moment, red faced and giddy, before stumbling off in search of another bathroom.

--

Somewhere between Episode 132-154

"Hey, guys?" Melanie called.

Daisy and Basira glanced up to see Melanie holding a giant plate of the best smelling food they'd seen in weeks. Steam wafted up into her very confused face.

"Did either of you make this? I went to ask Martin and I can't find him."

"I didn't make it," Basira said, "Daisy?"

"I once made spaghetti and lit it on fire.

Basira grimaced and walked up to Melanie, "Kebabs, Tahdig rice, flat bread, and jam cookies. Those are Iranian dishes, or Middle Eastern at least.”

Daisy looked at Basira, "How do you know that?"

"Took a foreign cuisine course focused on middle eastern food a few years ago," Basira said as she made her way to the kitchen area with the group in tow.

Sitting on the table were three more huge plates of food and two empty plates sitting in the sink. Martin was standing next to the table with pure confusion on his face.

"Did you make this?"

Martin jumped and looked at the group, "Uh, no? I really only do pastas… this is a little outside my skill set. I think-"

"It could be a trap," Daisy interrupted, "Maybe it's laced with something?"

"No, I'm pretty sure-"

"Could be, but who would go to this effort, the Web?" Basira said.

"Guys, it was probably-"

"It was the Archivist!" Helen exclaimed from behind them, somehow having opened her door without making a sound and scaring the shit out of them, "He is an excellent cook."

"Bullshit," Melanie wheezed, setting her plate down before she dropped it.

"No, she right," Martin sighed, "Jon actually cooked something similar a few years ago for a company thing. He gave this whole speech about how grandparents immigrated here from Iran, well Persia at the time, and his grandma made him learn to cook what she called 'real food'."

"You mean to tell me that Jonathan Sims, the skinniest guy I have ever met, can cook like this," Basira said in disbelief before cautiously sitting down at the table with the rest following suit.

"He called it his grandmother's curse," Helen provided cheerfully, "He said that no matter what he does,  he always makes far more than he needs and never has people around to give it to. So he just never cooks."

"You talked to him?" Melanie asked. Daisy began to pick at a plate and made a sound of confusion and delight at the taste.

"Oh yes, he even let me help by getting things off high shelves!"

"This is amazing," Daisy said in disbelief before grabbing a fork and beginning to eat in earnest.

"It is! Jon and I had a lovely chat and I'm not much for 'real' food these days but he really convinced me!" Helen declared, spinning back around to re enter her door, "And I must say it was delightful."

"Huh," Basira shrugged and began to eat.

Not bad.

--

Post Episode 159

For the second time since he woke up, Martin pinched himself. He had to be dreaming, the smaller body smooshed up against his chest and the boney limbs clinging to him had to be a figment of his imagination.

Jon huffed in his sleep and burrowed deeper into Martin before settling again. A few stray rays of the morning sun slipped through the blinds highlighting Jon’s gray hairs and the raised edges of scars that trailed along his skin.

Gently, Martin carded his hand through the wild mess of hair, marveling at how soft it was despite everything. Jon sighed, leaning into the touch without stirring.

He could stay like this forever, with Jon safe in his arms and the dangers of the world outside, away from his happiness.

"Wha' time?" Jon mumbled, stretching before re-draping himself over Martin. He looked up and the light caught his eyes in a way that Martin could see all the blue heterochromatic spots in Jon's left eye through dark, heavy lashes. 

"Doesn't matter," Martin whispered as he pulled him closer, "We have all the time in the world."

--

Supplemental Headcanons: - Jon is a 3rd gen Persian/Iranian immigrant. His grandparents on his dad's side moved to England post WWII. (Persia became Iran in 1979) They took the last name Sims during immigration. - His mother was full blooded English. - He can out cook 87% of the local grandma's when he really gets into it - He built an unnaturally high tolerance to salt and spice as a kid to keep people from taking his lunch or trying to mess with his food and now thoroughly enjoys spicy foods. - Jon does care a lot but his grandma never taught him to show it in any other way but tolerance and mute acceptance. It's hard to know where you stand with Jon because of this. - Was a runner while in school. - Was forced to take violin lessons as a kid and Georgie taught him some piano in University. - Jon is and always has been feral little man though he is more bark than bite (unless he's under the influence of something). He learned it from his grandma. - He's one of those drunks that often wanders/ runs away from his drinking group. He has strong drunk college girl tendencies. - He changed his middle name to Ulysses when he got his first name legally changed because he’s a nerd. - Jon has had the same pen pal since he was 10. They are one of the few points of normalcy he has left. - Jon and Daisy are trans mlm and wlw solidarity. Fight me.

Fun Fact: Sims means "the Listener" which seems almost too on the nose.

[arabrot]

Who Do You Love by John Doran

Who Do You Love?

We drove 5,000 miles of barbed wire.

You’d think that by travelling that distance around a country you could get the measure of it. Especially if the country was only 361 miles from top to bottom and even less from East to West. You’d be thinking reasonably but not accurately.

Despite journeying the equivalent of one fifth of the circumference of the entire Earth in 31 days, all we got to see was the road itself. England endless. What we experienced was just a percentage of a splodge, a smidge of a blotch on the coastal fringe of Europe that deserved neither the sobriquet Great, nor the title United. How did such a small area of land contain such extravagant lengths of major road? In the same way that a human body could house a tapeworm 33 metres long. Probably not comfortably but hopefully not fatally either. Undoubtedly, in May 2015 - general election month - England had beauty to spare: it’s just that none of it was visible from the motorway.

We met on the forecourt of a petrol station near an airport. Heat haze was already starting to rise from the tarmac. The Driver was dressed immaculately in a tight-fitting black suit, shades and wide-brimmed black hat. His concession to non-monochromatic decoration was silver chains carrying cocks and crosses. He looked like Asa Hawkes, the “blind” preacher from Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood - but much thinner. He tipped the brim of his hat hello. This was not his stage hat but his everyday hat. His stage hat, the kind of prairie Stetson featured in the opening scene of Holy Mountain was massive and kept in the kind of box that suggested it was an essential part of a drum kit. It had its own carefully allotted slot in the back of the van with the tons of amplifiers, speaker cabinets, guitars, synthesizers, boxes of books, suitcases full of clothes and bags and bags of oranges we were taking with us. There was only one way to fit all of this stuff into the vehicle, and packing it correctly was like 3-D Tetris. All it took was one giant, impractical hat in the wrong place and then everything had to be taken out again and reloaded in the correct position.

He was the colour of milk, which made the angry red scars up either side of his neck all the more vivid. He looked like the missing link between human being and some future race of Lovecraftian eel-men who would be able to breathe via gills under water.

As well as me and the Driver, there was the Passenger. She looked more like she had stepped straight from the set of Bladerunner than a Jodorowsky or John Huston movie. This was to be their last tour as boyfriend and girlfriend as they were headed straight to a deconsecrated church in rural Sweden to get married as soon as the trip ended. I was merely a temporary guest in their world. A road voyeur with a month long pass.

Within minutes of setting off we hit the M25 we became enmeshed in May Day traffic. I realised that most of the month was going to be spent looking at slow moving traffic on motorways.

But just as driving to Brighton was slow and painful, leaving it the next day was a dream. On the motorway, time stretched and contracted simultaneously in temporal doppler effect. The days seemed longer but time blistered, popped and broke apart pleasantly as the brain switched down a few gears into a near pure experiential mode. There was little to worry about. All I could do was count the pylons and pretend I had a flamethrower to aim at UKIP billboards and hoardings; to luxuriate in motorway sign typography and listen to Maggot Brain as loud as it would go. Miles Davis’ Agharta was the soundtrack to us speeding out of the south up the M1 towards the Rainy City. Al Foster’s ringing, open hi-hat was our fuel. And then it was nothing but John Coltrane, Electric Wizard and NOMEANSNO until we reached our destination. It started raining the second we hit Stoke. And then before long we were on the Mancunian Way heading for Piccadilly in torrential rain, parking the van under a tangle of flyovers. When I planned this jaunt it was a thing of beauty. I took an AA road map and unfolded it until it covered half the floor space in my tiny living room. I took a sheet of stickers from my son’s Thomas The Tank Engine magazine and created a spiral of towns and cities, first round the edges near the coast and then spiraling in toward the centre. Our proposed journey looked like an occult temporal and spatial message only discernable from the god perspective. What I planned was a perfect thing. But after you plan your perfect thing what happens is this: promoters start phoning you up or emailing you. ‘We’ve double booked you with a Stereophonics tribute act’; ‘There’s actually a bar mitzvah on that day’; ‘It’s Record Store Day.’ And then the perfect thing falls to pieces. By the time we hit the road the perfect thing looked like that terrifying film of a spider on LSD trying to spin a web. And there was only one thing worse than a spider on LSD trying to spin a web and that was a spider on caffeine trying to spin a web.

We stopped for several coffees en route to Sunderland the next day. The weather was beautiful. Fields of golden rape seed glowed under a blue sky. But I gave up counting the UKIP billboards. There were just too many. The purple pound signs zipped past in a blur. We’d been on the road for five days and I hadn’t seen a single sign for Labour. It was almost a relief when we passed a huge hoarding in an arable field next to a broken tractor which proclaimed: “Prepare to meet your Lord!” We pulled in soon after to stretch our legs in front of a petrol station that shared a forecourt with a sex shop wrapped in a large tarpaulin hoarding, proclaiming: “Under new management!” Next door was a garden centre flying a row of ten confederate flags and two Union Jacks. There was a knackered and rusty jet stream caravan serving up plastic cups of filter coffee.

It became clear early on that the Travelodge was our friend. Every Travelodge the Driver, the Passenger and I shared was identical. A family room. One double bed, one fold out couch bed, minimal decoration, very interesting mass produced art, scant furniture, tea making facilities and a portable telly, often chained to the wall. The Travelodge may have had less furniture in it than the average bail hostel and may sometimes have smelled like a suburban pet shop from 1984 but it was totally fine as we were low ranking touring musicians and writers, not visiting dignitaries from Saudi Arabia.

After Leeds, our Travelodge was situated in a motorway retail park so the following morning we walked just a few hundred yards to the Toby Carvery for breakfast. Pushing open the double swing doors we were confronted by a man in stained chef’s whites, with hair pushed under a light blue plastic turban crowning a jowly and crimson face. He was methodically and noisily applying a large cleaver to a foot long cylindrical sharpening steel with a schnick-schnick sound.

“Hello!” said the Driver cheerfully. “Are you Toby?”

The chef looked up slowly and a pendulous and translucent bead of sweat swayed under his nose. His eyes were like drill holes in gammon. Bruised udders of flesh were hanging below each of his nicotine-stained ocular orbs. He was possibly the most hungover man I had ever seen. He jawed away silently, his eyes flickering dully with rage as he started straightening up. The BPM of metal on metal increased. The three of us circled round him gingerly and headed rapidly for the breakfast counter past tables rammed full of people who looked like they were about to die. I had never seen so many morbidly obese people in one place at one time. It was like God’s waiting room with unlimited fried egg.

Oh England, you are sick.

It was only £5 per head and you could eat as much as you wanted but the choice was only bacon, sausages, roast potatoes, black pudding, fried egg, fried bread, beans and mushrooms. The thrill of the open road. Unlimited roast potatoes and bacon for breakfast.

(We spent just one night at the supposedly more upmarket Premier Inn, and it was relatively more luxurious but due to its incomprehensible automated reception machine, it took us an hour and a long conversation with two angry Premier Inn employees to gain access to our room. “Getting into this hotel was like the opening scene from a new episode of Black Mirror”, said the Driver, a recent convert to the show. “There’s nothing like waking up in some shitty English town, before eating some shitty English breakfast before driving slowly down some shitty English motorway for 12 hours before loading into some shitty English venue and playing a shitty gig to ten people before going to some shitty Travelodge just to watch a really well made English TV series which explains to you exactly why everything is so fucked”, he told me gleefully.)

Any hotel room was actually very much like home as long as you had a laptop, a handful of Nick Cave CDs, some Right Guard and a copy of Threads on DVD, which happened to be the exact contents of my overnight hotel bag.

Waking up in another identical Travelodge on another identical Motorway retail park the next day I realised finally that this was literally the worst place for a writer to be during general election month. Nowhere had wifi that worked. It was like being in a bubble of ignorance for 31 days. We had to choose these parks to minimise the chances of the splitter van getting stolen with all of our gear inside it. Every Travelodge we stayed in was essentially the same, surrounded by a handful of other outlets - a Toby Carvery or a Harvester or, if you were really unlucky, both of them. Then maybe also a Costa, a Boots and an Esso petrol station as well. They were all accessible from a motorway roundabout that wasn’t really near anything other than either an airport, a prison or an industrial estate. A vague hangover from reading JG Ballard as a schoolboy led me to believe that there would be some kind of mind-expanding nourishment to be had from this aspect of the venture but these motorway retail parks were all identical. They were the most co-opted and least free spaces of all.

After breakfast, outside, sitting on a wall drinking a cup of tea in the sunshine, I looked intently at a semicircle of rooks surrounding a single bird of their own kind. They were slowly advancing in toward it. The bird in the middle was stock still and not moving. It didn’t look like a friendly encounter. The Driver and the Passenger came out and joined me. The parliament were just about to attack the accused in order to peck it to death but just as the corvine jury bore down, they were disturbed by a loud noise from above. The Red Arrows flew over the Travelodge in formation causing them to scatter  It felt almost as if the Driver existed in a bubble of weird, uncanny, apocalyptic and esoteric events that moved with him wherever he roved. But it was also as if he barely noticed any of them. I stood pointing at the sky.

“Yes, yes” he snapped irritably as if he was sick of seeing this kind of thing. “Let’s get in the van and get off otherwise we won’t get to Digbeth in time.”

That night I dreamt that the solid iron core of the Earth was about to slough us all off until the planet stood raw and bleeding in space, just roiling magma with no skin to contain it. The utter indignity of being born between waves, the scions of a pusillanimous age we were all about to be cast into the void with the filthy scab of a country we called England. A flat and unmagical land. A depressing and tawdry place. When I opened my eyes Toby was stood in the corner of the room, sharpening his cleaver, schnick, schnick, schnick, schnick. Empty eye sockets carved out of rancid, fly-blown gammon.  

“We have to stop eating lunch at the Harvester!” I sprang out of my fold out bed and shouted at the Driver and the Passenger, waking them from their sleep. “The full rack of ribs is fucking killing me!”

Fuck the Harvester. Fuck Toby Carvery. All of the clothes that were hanging off me on May 1 were now snug and it was only May 12. My ears were ringing with the premonition of some future blue cheese dressing related pulmonary event.

It was easy to see how ruinous life on the road could be, even when you didn’t drink or do drugs. I felt sorry for younger bands who felt they had to go out partying every night after shows. After a couple of weeks it must end up hellish.

The road to Hull was paved with UKIP signs. Only Necrosis by Cadaver played at ear disrespecting volumes kept us sane. It was dark as we drove into town and ghosts lined Ferensway waiting to greet me. The cinema where I’d had my first date in town, the pair of us just turned 18 - watching Shirley Valentine no less, saying, “Imagine being that old” about Pauline Collins and Bernard Hill - was now a bingo hall. The war memorial that I regularly drank sherry in front of on a bench. The Welly nightclub where I saw a punter swan dive off a balcony and go headfirst through the corner of a formica table. When they took him out on a stretcher there was a blanket pulled up over his face. And then down past my old house on De Grey Street and into the car park of the Adelphi. And then the ghosts waved us back out of town.

The drive to Great Yarmouth was gruelling and 13-hours long because of traffic - we got stuck behind no less than three serious road accidents. Bodies strewn across baking tarmac. Bloodied travellers weeping in incomprehension at the hard shoulder. Slow moving the traffic might have been but at least we had plenty of long albums to listen to. Just like a mattress in a shared student house or the narrative flow of the Bayeux Tapestry - Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp A Butterfly sagged in the middle but it was very, very long, making it ideal for the van.

Eight hours later, after the show, we flew down the A47 unimpeded like we were clinging to a rocket, listening to Slayer albums sequentially at full volume, gabbling like a bunch of four-year-olds as we went. By the last day, I felt like I was about to die and constantly on the verge of tears. I didn’t want it to end. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times. It was genuinely the worst of all times. And yet I’d crawl over broken glass to be able to do it all again right now.

You know, if you really want to get the measure of a country don’t drive round it. Take a train or walk. Maybe buy a bicycle or a skateboard or something.

We drove 5,000 miles of barbed wire and parked the splitter van by the roadside.

John Doran, Bangkok, Thailand, December 2017

[qqueenofhades]

I saw your post on the partisan lines drawn in the Trump impeachment case. Has congress always been this dysfunctional or is this a relatively new thing? Things feel very hopeless.

Aha. Aha. Ahaaaa. Hah.

I’ll tell you a tale of the bottomless blue, or in this case, American political dysfunction. As with many tales of recent American political dysfunction, this one starts with… Ronald Reagan!

(Man, Hilary, do you really hate Ronald Reagan that much? Answer: Yes, yes I do. Especially since public opinion has moved to ranking him as one of the greatest presidents ever, even Democrats tiptoe around criticizing him, and he is responsible for so much of the shit we are presently in! So much!)

For the younglings amongst us, Reagan was Trump before Trump was Trump: a popular actor who dodged out of service in WWII by making heroic propaganda films, found politics, ran as a Republican and almost swiped the nomination out from Ford in 1976, then ran again in 1980 and beat Jimmy Carter in a landslide. Reagan was, as we’ve discussed, a huge fan of voodoo economics, deregulation, ignoring the AIDS crisis, and massively pumping up the American military mythos and dangerously aggravating the Cold War. In the early 1980s, as the Soviet Union was collapsing from within and could barely feed its own citizens, Reagan was out there hyping it up as the most Terrible and Evil foe that America had ever faced anywhere, which therefore justified a giant surge in military spending and preparation for apparently imminent doomsday. Reagan was positive the commies were everywhere, especially in Central America, and had to be defeated. They were apparently particularly in Grenada (see the 1983 invasion of Grenada) and Nicaragua (the Sandinistas; remember them, they will be important.) The US/CIA has been absolutely shamefully imperialist and interventionist in Latin America for decades, but these were just a few of Ronald’s favorite things. All of this may sound like a diversion just to bag on him some more, because fuck that guy, but I promise, there’s a point.

See, the key difference between Reagan and Trump was that Reagan was nicknamed the “Great Communicator.” Unlike the barely literate Orange One, the Gipper sure could tell a great story, and by golly, he did not let the facts get in the way. He was also a huge advocate of untrammeled power for the executive branch. One thing that Reagan was not a fan of was informing Congress in any measure of what he was doing. The Iran-Contra scandal, which really should have destroyed Reagan’s administration in any just world and also gotten him impeached, was the revelation that he was running friggin’ illegal arms sales to Iran (in the name of freeing exactly seven American hostages who Iran never had any intention of releasing), arming right-wing anti-communist paramilitaries in Nicaragua with the proceeds, and had told Congress about exactly jack shit of any of this! Reagan was basically running his own private empire/byzantine weapons deals/fiefdom/whatever the goddamn hell he wanted, he was a big believer in the president never having to explain himself to anyone or ask permission for anything, while conducting illegal private wars, lying constantly, wrecking the economy, giving tax breaks to billionaires, constantly running off at the mouth about a mostly fictional enemy, and getting credit for ending the Cold War after he nearly single-handedly turned it hot. Sound familiar?

It may help to explain the extended nightmare of the last several Republican administrations if you remember that they were/are basically one mutated Frankenadministration. Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld,  and others – aka all the later major players under George Bushes Sr. and Jr. – were all high-level Cabinet members of Reagan’s administration. This was all just part of one policy put into place by the same people at every chance they got when they were in power, and that was focused on making the (Republican) president basically able to do whatever he wanted. That checks and balances stuff, man, who needs that? As a result, Congress was deliberately designed to be either totally minimized/outright ignored (if held by the opposing party) or a slavish organ of lockstep devotion (if held by the Republicans). This was not always the case. When the Republicans won it back under Reagan in the 1980s, the Senate had been under Democratic control for almost 30 years. There were bumps, obviously, but there was still some sense that the legislative and the executive branches were both vital for government and should work together.

…yeah, so. Reagan junked all that, basically. When W. got to the White House, he then had 9/11 barely 9 months into his presidency, which meant that for a while, he also could do pretty much whatever and no one in either the House or Senate, regardless of party, really dared to oppose him for fear of looking anti-American. This was concurrent with the Republican Party abandoning even a pretense that they were interested in anyone besides rich white (nominally) Christian men. (The religious right also acquired its modern connotations/voting force under, you guessed it, Reagan!) Hence, they were absolutely furious when a brown Democrat with the middle name Hussein won the election in 2008. Mitch McConnell then decided before Obama was even sworn in that the congressional Republicans just flat-out weren’t going to cooperate with anything he did. Didn’t matter what. They were going to obstruct anything and everything, so Obama wouldn’t be able to deliver on his flagship campaign promises and the blame would fall on him. The Republicans were dead-set on making Obama a one-term president, again, before he had even set foot in the White House. Democrats also controlled the House and Senate for the first two years of Obama’s presidency, so this didn’t immediately matter. But then came 2010 and the Tea Party wave, and now the Republicans had a majority, and they did exactly as promised. They blocked everything. Consistently. No matter what.

We mentioned Merrick Garland before. I’m still mad about Merrick Garland. Mitch McConnell outright refused to hold any hearings to confirm Obama’s perfectly legitimate Supreme Court pick for almost eighteen months, betting on a Republican to win the 2016 election and do so instead, and he got away with it. That is why we have Neil Gorsuch and Brett Kavarapist on the court right now. The Republicans have proven that they don’t give a damn about public welfare or any pretense of public morality or…. well, anything whatsoever except making themselves richer and more powerful. As bad as Trump is, he could still be out if the congressional GOP had any morals, backbone, willingness to go against their toxic lockstep ideology for the good of the country, or anything. Except… they don’t. They have voted time and again to enable him, shield him from prosecution, and support his plans, because as long as he’s in office, they’re doing well off the gravy train. I really cannot overstate how sociopathic and cowardly these people are. And half the country is still willing to vote for them!

So…. yes. The answer is, Congress, especially the Republican Congress, has been deliberately designed to act exactly like this since the 1980s, and it’s doing exactly what it means to. As to whether that is going to change, you, me, and the rest of America are the only ones who can decide that, and do that, you absolutely must, MUST vote, and not for them.

[incarnateirony]

15.11 and moving forward

Some of you may have seen my Putrefied in Purgatory video surrounding 15.09. Putrefaction is the reduction of a material to its barest state for a new foundation, rotting away to the alchemical Blackened state to rebuild on new stages of whitening (which seemed to crest in 15.10 for Dean), then yellowing and reddening en route, though for completion there's other stages ahead of us (as per what I lended towards in Philosopher's Gold, also 15.09 video.)

But I think what I need to do is discuss the tree.

SO MOVING FORWARD, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN ALCHEMY AND QABBALAH SPN LAND. GLAD YOU ASKED, NOBODY.

I *AM* gonna need you to bear with me right now, because I’m about to data-dump out a bunch of information and then go back over and explain how this is connecting to what Andrew Fucking Dabb and company are doing actively, episode by episode. If you don’t get it on first read, that’s fine, once I start putting it in terms and concepts and show stuff you get, scroll back and re-digest in frame.

Okay so, let’s drop some points. You may have remembered me making early videos of Belphegor as the ruler of Thagirion after 15.01 (x) and later, one called Worthy of Love for Tiphareth (x), but not before he who blocks and hampers the heart guides walked them through flames they were not yet ready to access (x), causing an unlevel involution between the Three Principles with Castiel reaching a reddening while Dean sat in darkness and Sam struggled to maintain his own light.

 This is going to become very important to my babbling, but the concept is that there is a nega/void/blockage version of the tree that has “evil” versions of each node. Tiphareth’s shadow is Thagirion. Tiphareth is the essence of love, true and genuine. It dominates the heart chakra, and its disputer, Belphegor, the blocker, is he who does not believe in love and observes marriages for dissent and further aggitates the blockage in the path. Sound familiar?

This Sephira is in some respects the most important of all. It is the centre of the whole system; it is the only Sephira below the Abyss which communicates directly with Kether. (Think crown/godhead/source -- white node #1) It is fed directly from Chokmah and Binah; also from Chesed and Geburah. (I’ll... get into these another time, they’re a higher segment) It is thus admirably fitted to dominate the lower Sephiroth; it is balanced both vertically and horizontally. In the planetary system it represents the Sun; in the system of Tetragrammaton it represents the Son. In other words, the Son is an interpretation of the Father in terms of the Mind. [Tiphareth is] thus representative of [the four] elements at their practical best.  (Book of Thoth, p.181) 

You don’t say. (vaguely screams into fist about who and what the Mind is and who and what the Father in this Aeon is)

Soft Husband Gaze Dot Gif not found in tumblr search so I’ma nab and tag another by @starsmish​

Dean and Cas’ blowout over Jack, “you’re dead to me”, was over Cas knowing something was wrong with Jack, and not telling them, and Dean’s anger leading to distrust.

That was putrefied in purgatory, everything laid bare. And while they haven’t had their heart to heart yet (that big good omens energy shot is probably from 12, a bobocuda episode like The Future was), here–

Cas already had his gasping, shocked, clutched reunion with the son. Sam came home and gave a squeeze too.

But Dean walked up, put a hand behind his son’s neck, stared deeply into his eyes to see if it was him. And, as if doubting himself, looked to his somber husband, who silently communicated and affirmed it, and Dean knew, and trusted, and believed, and their son was home.

Someone launch me to jupiter please

oh wait neverfuckingmind, Dabb and co are working on that shortly.

Tiphareth, the heart, is the central vein, the power between godhood and the terrestrial earth as manifest in Malkuth.

I had pointed out the choice taste in Dean emerging from black in a white suit to look into yellow light and past red drapes in 15.10 and that Dean seemed to be approaching his whitening, but that’s even truer now.

The phases I speak of bear relevance to these.

Just--humor me and see earth as the blackened base from the human perspective, even if the blackened base of the Shadow of Man lies beneath the Ain Soph (which I’ll show some inverted trees for later). I’ve spoken of lunar light in regards to the whitening before, and it even rose in my Reflection video about crucifying the ego before it was too late (x) (please mind the video was made a year ago now based on hermetic pattern spec)  “The moon gives me her secret, a confidant; as full and bright as I am, this light is not my own and a million light reflections pass over me.” 

(aside re: crucifying the ego, it’s about removing the blackened snake of our unrefined parts of the self, similar to putrefaction, so a step we just crossed)

In alchemy, albedo is one of the four major stages of the magnum opus, along with nigredo, citrinitas/xanthosis and rubedo. It is a Latinicized term meaning "whiteness". Following the chaos or massa confusa of the nigredo stage, the alchemist undertakes a purification or rectification in albedo, which is literally referred to as ablutio or absolution – the washing away of impurities. This phase is concerned with "bringing light and clarity to the prima materia (personal material)". But the transmutational state is ... well.

“The whitening phase is ruled by the moon and as such is reflective, in that it does not have its own light. The maturation of the whitening happens via reflection and is often described as mirroring. The reflective processes, of thinking and feeling, dominate the direct experiences of intuition, sensation and imagination. Knowledge is King, and Mystery is banished by the whitening ego's searchlight. Perfection is idealised, and imperfection seen as weakness. Immediate gratification is expected. Nothing is allowed to mature. Lacking true wisdom, we are children in adult's bodies. Our leaders lack the vision to see the real problems, and the guts to really change things.

“The first main goal of the process... highly prized by many alchemists... is the silver or moon condition, which still has to be raised to the sun condition. The albedo [whitening], is so to speak, the daybreak, but not till the rubedo [reddening] is it sunrise. The transition to the rubedo is formed by the citrinitas [yellowing], though this, as we said, was omitted later.” (x)

Now let’s take a look at how that applies to Yesod in the middle pillar, above Malkuth, both of which gain power from light *elsewhere* -- that is, Tiphareth.

Of Yesod: 

“After the double excursion into misfortune, (Hod and Netzach) the current returns to the middle pillar. This Sephira is the seat of the great crystallization of Energy. But it takes place very far down the Tree, at the apex of the third descending triangle, and a flat triangle at that. There is little help from low, unbalanced spheres like Netzach and Hod. What saves Yesod is the direct ray from Tiphareth; this Sephira is in the direct line of succession. (Book of Thoth) “

Yesod is that subtle basis upon which the physical world is based....It is the Astral Plane, which in one sense being passive and reflecting energies from above is lunar, even as the moon reflects the light of the sun. The Astral Light is an omnipresent and all-permeating fluid or medium of extremely subtle matter; substance in a highly tenuous state, electric and magnetic in constitution, which is the model upon which the physical world is built. It is the endless, changeless, ebb and flow of the world's forces that, in the last resort, guarantee the stability of the world and provides its foundation. [...]  The general conception of Yesod is of change with stability. (Regardie, 1994)

So let’s take a quick aside on that double journey into instability in Hod and netzach, and I’ll leave everyone to think of how this correlates now.

The position of Netzach is doubly unbalanced; off the middle pillar, and very low down on the Tree. It is taking a very great risk to descend so far into illusion, and, above all, to do it by frantic struggle. Netzach pertains to Venus...and the greatest catastrophe that can befall Venus is to lose her Heavenly origin. (Book of Thoth, p.182)

The sphere of Hod represents on a very much lower plane similar qualities to those obtaining in Chokmah. It is the lower plane, first primitive version of union and sharing between the divine masculine and feminine (SPN video recs [x], [x] ) as mirrored to Netzach’s above details.

So we’ve got... lesser unions *scrolls over 15.9* cast down Mark wedding, check, from a blackened putrified base of Malkuth not yet even fully acquiring its own awareness of reflected light in Yesod or Albedo. 15.10 Dean does seem to start gaining some sense of light and dream, if reflected off of imaginings of others while coming out from behind the curtain *checks* but it’s not fully manifest yet. Now the heroes struggle through descending into illusion and frantic struggle, questioning all they know in existence, or their “luck”. *checks* 

Now, Fortuna tells our heroes a good deal of what we knew they needed to hear. In the end it really isn’t about their luck. Heroes aren’t extinct, but it’s not about playing god’s game, it’s about playing their own. The divine feminine told them the secrets of the gods and, in a way, it is the steps towards mastering their human sovereignty.

Notice the lunar card path lending towards the lunar Yesod node, for example, even using arcana -- given this is Grey’s system, there’s a few others.

Uh, ignore the given card/highlighted path for now, that’s there for reasons you may recognize that I’ll bang on about elsewhere.(Aeon, for the record, is basically the same as Judgement and World=Universe, and Lust=Strength different naming system -- you’ll notice the second names on the first chart apply here, though in a matter of descending vs ascending. A few are different; and I’m not gonna pledge up and down which version Dabb is using, so I’m more going to take the raw idea that works across multiple models)

In the interim -- and defaulting back to Tiphareth after following the path of the Sun through Art, towards the philosopher’s stone of unabridged love, marriage, the sun and the son, the moon reflects the light of the sun, the Rising Sun, albeit not yet back to its proper reddening -- the yellow familial light I’ve banged on about in this show, even beyond our romantic pairings. The sun had been lost and the family and the three principles fell into chaos, needing to rebuild. And yet, as Castiel brings home Jack, we see the growth even in these few episodes: 

With pain and distrust betrayed in purgatory, over having failed to communicate issues with Jack, once everything was laid bare and rotten to base to rebuild in Purgatory, Dean looked to Castiel after doubting himself staring into Jack’s eyes to know if their son was truly home, and by a look, he knew, and accepted, and as weighty as it was, that family was complete.

Back to Tiphareth as the four elements in harmony, we have our future playing field here. 

I will tap back to Hod reflecting Chokmah though, at a lesser value, by citing some points of Chokmah: “male creative energy, wisdom and the expression of a single idea in terms of duality. It transmits the idea of the divine unity to its feminine counterpart, the understanding, somewhat as a man transmits the essence of his character to his wife so that he perceives his inmost nature, itself unintelligible to him directly, by observing the flowering of that essence in his son. “

Cough. blossom.

Anyway,

the yellowing is upon them all now, in actual harmony, with the return of the sun by which to reflect their light in Yesod, but furthermore, to step forward.

Hm. What saves Yesod is the direct ray from Tiphareth.

Their su/on. Is home. And the yellow light, if faint at first, as they come to speak, has returned, lingering between them. The yellowing itself comes from moving into a form of being where one’s own soul is less a reflected light of the grand scheme of things and one’s own personal, generated light, and that is landing upon us shortly.

To like, fully break down this path shit I’d have to go full like alchemical sermon here, but I’m more trying to map out just how artistically rendered this show is using these paths. 

So where do we go now? The crown, Kether, is our goal. But we’re not ready to Priestess rocket straight that direction, as much as there’s still a strong overshadow of Kether upon them, even if the Star’s light descending leads towards hope. 

But we’ve left the primitive base triangle now. Geburah and Chesed await. 

Geburah:

The introduction of the number Five shows the idea of motion coming to the aid of that of matter...The result is a complete upset of the statically stabilized system. Now appear storm and stress. (The Book of Thoth, p.180)

Despite the fact that Geburah is a feminine potency, as are all Sephiros [sic] on the left-hand column of the Tree, practically all its attributions are male and vigorous...This is not confusion of thought, but a recognition of the necessity for equilibrium." (Regardie, 1994)

Geburah represents on a much lower plane the Sakti force-element attributed to Binah. (Regardie, 1994)

The quality of Geburah is summed up in the general idea of strength and power and force. Its card based attributions are strife, disappointment, defeat, and worry. That which the heart must overcome with strength.

Chesed:

Lots of crazy mystic math involved but summarily Righteousness, Mercy, and Love, combining seemingly diverse ideas.

 "below the Abyss"; therefore, in practice, it means solidification, materialization. Things have become manifest. The essential point is that it expresses the Rule of Law...The manifestation promised by Binah has now taken place. Chesed...is the highest idea which can be understood in an intellectual way. (The Book of Thoth).

These are given to travel to Chokmah (which I’ve noted already) and Binah “For she is omniform as Love and as Death, the Great Sea whence all Life springs, and whose black womb reabsorbs all. She thus resumes in herself the duplex process of the Formula of Love under Will" (Little Esssays Towards Truth, "Love") - planetary association Saturn, so you may.. *gestures back at other videos* (x)

Like... Rowena’s Reverse Womb Symbolism Dot Jaypeg, “Death is an infinite vessel.” (reminder drop x)

“In short, Binah is the substantive vehicle of every possible phenomenon, physical or mental” (Regardie, 1994)

opposite chokmah, as above mentioned in the masculine presence of the union to meet the godhead.

These lovers must still walk different paths for a time, but will meet across the void of hidden knowledge before standing at the crown, if only after facing their strife and personal strength, taking the understanding of the moon and fortuna, to not play another’s game, to blossom into holding one’s own light along with completion in the family unit, and to find wisdom in the hidden things between them, by which the aged hermit, the hierophant, he who held the unofficiated wedding’s gold, the incomplete, lesser manifestation at Hod, and formerly cast it down -- as his foundation to approach the crown.

At more immediate, Netzach is also led forward by Fortune or Fortuna towards Chesed. The Hermit, a role Sam has heavily embodied on his Hierophant path, crosses from Tiphareth. As the one that impressed Fortuna, Sam is likely the one to hold the torch of her words right now, and figure out how to make Chuck play their game. Whereas Hod travels the road of the Hanged Man, each to find their strength sourced upward from Tiphareth, the heart, the sun, the son, the marriage, the family light, the yellowing, with adjustment through Tiphareth removing some of the pillar of severity and the hanged man road ahead of the struggling, still separated union.

Death descends from Binah to Geburah, enacting her volatile change and meeting the path of the hanged man, empowered by heart and adjustment; the hierophant will meet and become the hermit at Chesed. The path of the united lovers is an inevitability in any system rising from the heart towards the path of the hanged man in affiliation with the divine feminine, death's forces included; and the hierophant enacts the emperor on way to the divine masculine. The Emperor and Empress' marriage will end up being the fundament by which to face that final triangle of upper creation.

For those of you who remember me banging on about Art/Temperance versus Lovers arcana all goddamn hiatus, enjoy seeing them spawn out of Tiphareth there.

Here the red eagle and white lion commune and share in their parts, for the restoration of the golden orphic (x) child and great work under the hands of the Hierophant against the pillars of overseeing divine fem/masc (here represented in Adam and Lilith, other versions Adam and Eve)

Just... honestly just read this (x) if you want to know more about how each of these elementson those cards correspond to the above paths.

So I guess this is a really long magical way of shipper Sam is gonna have to get these two knuckleheads cosmically married and complete before standing as the godman and subverting the allfather with the rebirth of the heart and their su/on. And hopefully not have Eileen recreate the Rowena thing on the way. Or Cas for that matter.

The complete deconstruction of the lovers in purgatory was necessary, having been in the cursed and evil, inverted tree and blocked at Tiphareth. Now we can build forward in light and knowledge and the sovereign journey of man, even if it has its pitfalls and misfortunes. The Empress’ marriage to the Emperor makes foundation for the Fool (which isn’t what it sounds like) and the Magician’s completed work, finalizing the top triangle of unity to complete their magnum opus against god. Man created the gods, and are to soon prove themselves the equal of him.

And that’s my rambling because I suck at teaching this shit.

*nervous chuckling for potential ways for Castiel’s deal to work out right now*

[no-d4y-but-tod4y]

A continuation of the first kiss fic! Unfortunately I’m on mobile so I don’t think you can link to posts, but Part One is called Close Encounters if anyone fancies having a nosey.

What else do you do during this quarantine. Enjoy!

———

A Talk In The Morning

Alma woke up late that morning.

Her mind had not stopped racing enough for her to fall asleep for hours. It was as if a broken film reel played endlessly inside her head, producing pictures and words and thoughts and feelings all at once with no chronological sense or obvious pattern. They moved too fast for her to comprehend all of them, but the general gist of her imagination last night boiled down to this:

I kissed Frankie.

I mean it certainly took long enough.

Frankie kissed me.

It was even more amazing than I thought he would be.

We kissed.

I really like him.

I really really really like him.

What the fuck do I do now.

Eventually her mental and physical fatigue became too much and she drifted off with a pleasant knot in her stomach and a big dumb grin on her face.

But that was last night. Everything looked different in the daylight.

Alma decided she’d better get up and dressed. Today’s itinerary didn’t start until noon, but these hours of free time were obviously supposed to be used for networking with the other patrons, showcasing your own portfolio and achievements, and generally just a chance to make a good first impression. More fool any overnight guest who used the late start as an excuse to stay in bed.

Ignoring the urge to tear out of her room to find him, Alma took her time getting ready. She showered, dried her hair properly rather than towelling off the excess and letting plaits a la Pippi Longstocking do the rest, and stood in front of the wardrobe still wrapped in a fluffy towel.

She had packed all of her best outfits - after all, she wanted to look smart - but now, even the one or two designer pieces in her collection looked shabby. What would Frank be wearing? The image was vivid in her mind, surrounded by the luxury of his private suite.

Perhaps he’d go more male coded, with a velvet blazer over a white shirt with a ruffled collar tucked into a pair of high waisted trousers - she pictured pleather but couldn’t be sure - complete with a pair of black crocodile printed patent leather boots. He would tame his hair just a bit, but not so as to lose his distinctive curls. She saw him using a cane, retratctable with a large brass bulb fixed atop the handle. He’d have enourmous fun with that. tapping shyer guests on the nose, twirling it like a baton and making it seem alive with the skill with which he danced with it, and inevitably thwacking various guests on their backsides.

Or maybe he’d take advantage of a wonderfully new group of people to shock, and lean towards his signature habits to the extreme. A rich black corset fitted as tight as Frank’s organs would allow, blinding to its spectators with thousands upon thousands of Swarovski crystals. A few tassels probably wouldn’t go amiss, unless the hotel proprietor owned any cats. Meshed gloves to match, frilled delicately at the cuffs to match the fishnet stockings everyone knew so well. Frank didn’t strike Alma as the type to treat complete strangers with an entirely new wardrobe, so perhaps he would wear thigh high boots with this look. Shiny, dagger-like, ridiculous. She hoped he’d brought his fringed jacket with all his personal decorations. She especially liked the Union Jack flag on the back. If he slung that on over his arms he’d probably wear a cap. Pseudo-pilot style. Leather, of course, studded, complete with a glinting badge on the front, sporting crimson lipstick marks and reading “SEXY”.

She liked that hat.

But never mind the drool - what about her?

Keep it simple, she thought to herself. Don’t try so hard.

She pulled a black ribbed polarneck over her head, layered underneath a pretty blush pink pinafore dress. A pair of black tights and comfortable suede ankle boots and that was all she needed.

She spritzed some of Frank’s favourite perfume across her neck and collarbone.

Someone knocked at the door. A familiar voice trilled ‘Housekeeping!’

Her heart leapt. She bolted across the room and opened the door before she could even think about playing it cool.

Frank gave her the warmest smile when she opened the door. It made her glow from the inside out. ‘Hello, darling.’ She stood there, not quite sure what to say. Still mesmerised. ‘I brought you breakfast. May I come in?’

She stepped back immediately, letting Frank pull a small maids cart on wheels behind him like a suitcase. The cart was full of all her favourites. Pancakes, waffles, cereals, toast, fruit, cheese, preservatives and conserves and of course heaping piles of chocolate pastries.

Frank unloaded all the food onto the table in the corner of the room with cutlery, drinking glasses and warm plates. The sustenance also included orange and cranberry juice (though not in the same bottle) breakfast tea bags and instant coffee.

Alma ventured closer to the table - closer to him - to look at the spread. ‘Frankie...you brought all of this for me?’

‘Why of course I did, sunshine!’ When Frank moved quickly, his hair didn’t look attached. It followed along behind him like a video game lag, giving the impression that he wore a wig. Don’t be shy now, have whatever you like.’

‘I’ll never be able to eat all of this.’

‘I’ll take whatever’s left back downstairs.’ He giggled. ‘I stole it from there anyway. Tuck in then, before it gets cold.’

‘Frankie, I...you’ve set the table for two.’

She couldn’t believe it had taken her that long to cotton on.

He made an elaborate gesture of turning back to the table and pretending to appear surprised. ‘You know darling you’re absolutely right. Why ever did I do that?’ He made himself comfortable and tucked a napkin into the front of his top (her suspicions had been only half right. He wore a mid bust corset under a sheer long sleeved top, dark, and embellished with rhinestones, with the classic stockings and high heels. It would have looked tacky on anyone else, and in the right lighting Alma could see his nipples) and fanned it out over his chest like a bib.

He extended his arm out towards her, palm upturned. Long arms into long hands into long fingers. Another dashing smile.

She’d only kissed the man once and was already hopelessly in love with him.

‘I suppose we’ll just have to eat together.’

All of a sudden she finally snapped out of her trance and found herself moving again. Right towards him with no fear or insecurity or inhabition. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting on his lap and kissing him before she realised it. At least he was kissing her back.

Even so she jerked away, surprised at herself.

‘I’m sorry Frankie I shouldn’t-.’

‘Shh. Don’t.’ He placed his fingers over her mouth and traced the shape of her lips soothingly, stroking her neck and shoulders with his other hand. She wished she wouldn’t tremble so much.

He could peel the pinafore from her frame and the rest of he wanted to, and she would let him, but they both knew it wouldn’t come to that. Yet.

She wanted to cup his face or stroke his hair, start returning the favour for all those other times. Having Frank touching her was not a new thing: a very tactile and physical person, he was always holding her close, stroking her hair, kissing her knuckles and very occasionally caressing her face. Always careful, always gentle. But despite the obvious reciprocation, this was still strange and frightening.

‘You can touch me, darling, it’s okay.’

She suppressed a whimper. How did he do that?

He gently grasped her wrist and brought her hand up to his face, leaning into her palm. For a moment, he sighed and closed his eyes.

‘See?’ He murmured, turning his face to kiss her palm. ‘Five fingers still in tact.’ He squeezed her hand and smiled at her. ‘Go on now, budge up. Can’t very well enjoy the most important meal of the day like this.’

Alma moves away and sat opposite him, not that she wanted to. At least her hands had stopped shaking.

She had to at least try to eat, although her stomach was already full with knots. There were so many thoughts screaming and running around in Alma’s brain that she didn’t even know what she didn’t know. But Frank has gone to so much trouble to keep his word and protect her privacy at the same time, the least she could do was enjoy it. Even if she did have to watch Frank slather his toast in Marmite.

In the end, they managed to eat about half of it. One small nibble of toast made her suddenly ravenous, and she packed away more than she expected. Three pancakes, two rounds of toast, a chocolate crossaint a slice of watermelon and three glasses of orange juice more, in fact.

Frank plucked a gleaming red apple from the selection of fruit and took a large bite. Looked at her for a while, chewing.

‘Wouldn’t it be funny if I threw this at someone?’

Willpower gone, she just fell about laughing. It felt good to get a rush of emotion out, even if it was hysterical giggling.

‘Oh Frankie I’m so full up.’ Alma sighed, leaning back in her chair and pushing her plate away from her. ‘I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.’

‘Mm. I think you’re right there, sunshine.’ Frank patted his stomach. What stomach, Alma scoffed, he didn’t have a stomach. He could eat anything and have it go right through. He had a body akin to chiseld marble. ‘Here, darling, you wash the glasses and I’ll take this outside.’ She leapt up and gathered the glasses and cups in her arms as Frank stacked the plates and stored them in the cart.

She precariously carried the dishes over to the sink and turned on the water. She hoped she hadn’t been staring.

After cleaning the utensils and wiping down the surfaces, Frank came back in, which surprised her, and collapsed onto the sofa with a relieved grown. She stayed by the sink, unsure whether she was allowed to go to him or not. Weren’t they supposed to be back downstairs?

‘Are you planning to stand there all day?’

She cursed to herself under her breath. Frank really did have eyes in the back of his head.

‘Come here, darling. I don’t bite.’

She crossed the open plan area and stepped over Frank’s legs - thank heavens she didn’t catch her foot and trip over them - and perched on the cushion beside him.

‘Oh for the love of-.’ Frank hoisted Alma on to his lap and adjusted her legs so she was straddling his waist. ‘There.’ He grinned and tapped her on the nose. ‘Isn’t that better?’

She was so overcome she didn’t say anything. Her face was on fire. She must have looked really attractive.

Frank sighed, a little exasperated. ‘You mustn’t be so bashful, sunshine. What is it? Hmm? Don’t you want to be close to me?’

‘No, that’s not it. I just-.’

‘See, you won’t even touch me now. Put your arms around my neck and see what happens.’

She did, and shuffled a bit closer. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, rather than leaving them danglng in mid air and having her feet go to sleep.

‘See? Easy, isn’t it?’

She chuckled softly but didn’t say anything.

‘Are you embarrassed by me?’

She shook her head.

‘Do I frighten you?’

‘No.’

He cupped her cheek in his hand and she instinctively leaned into his palm. She loved the feeling of his smooth skin and long fingers, particularly when he stroked her cheek gently with his thumb.

‘You like me.’

She took hold of his wrist to keep him there. Her voice would not give a straight answer.

‘Alma, you can’t keep staring at me in silence. You have to tell me what you’re thinking.’ He exhaled gently, the familiar smell of him muddling with her comprehension. ‘Do you want to take things further with me?’

She couldn’t look at him. She nodded.

When Frank spoke, his voice was incredibly soft. ‘Then what’s stopping you? It’s almost like you’re scared to admit it.’

‘I am,’ she whispered. Keeping her gaze firmly on Frank’s knees, she continued, ‘I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how. Everyone will know. And they’ll wonder. And they’ll stare. No one would believe someone like you would choose to be with someone like me. I’ll ruin it, I know I will. Once you get to know me properly you’ll realise you made a mistake. I won’t be what you thought you wanted, I won’t be able to satisfy you in the way you need, I won’t be what you deserve. You deserve so much better. And I certainly don’t deserve you. I’m too anxious, I’m too intimidated, I’m too average. You’re intelligent and attractive and confident, in nothing like that. Nothing like you, even though I wish I was. There’s an entire world of people who’d fall over each other to get to you and it can’t be the right decision for you settle for me.’

They sat in silence for a few moments.

Frank gently pushed her head down to his shoulder and stroked her hair soothingly. He rocked her in his lap like a baby, and his lips caressed her hair when he spoke.

‘You already know I don’t understand why you think like that. But you forgot to mention one other thing.’

Alma could barely hear her own voice. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You forgot to ask me what I want.’ He pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. ‘And believe it or not, sunshine...I want you.’

She buried her face in the crook of his neck and tried her hardest not to cry.

‘Come on, sit up. Let me look at you.’

She hid her face behind her hands. ‘I can’t...’

‘No, don’t cry,’ Frank said rather firmly. ‘You can, you’re just feeling a little overwhelmed.’ He wiped away the tears as they fell all the same. ‘What do you need, my darling? Would you like me to come back later?’

She shook her head resolutely. She managed a feeble, ‘Stay,’ and burst into floods of tears.

‘Oh, sunshine. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He peppered her in gentle kisses, hushed her, reasoned with her but nothing seemed to be working. He couldn’t work out whether she was overcome with tears of joy or utter dismay that a weirdo like him had fallen for her. ‘Okay, darling, come on. That’s enough now.’ He stood up, hoisting her to his waist and plonking her into her own seat. He got some tissues and a glass of water and knelt down in front of her. ‘There we go, try and calm down now. You can blow your nose in this but don’t give it back.’ She managed a tearful giggle and he smiled warmly in return.

‘I’m sorry Frankie I just-.’

‘Shh. None of that, darling. I know.’ He winked reassuringly. ‘Now, it’s completely up to you whether you want to stay and finish the day, or you want to go home. I don’t want you getting over-excited.’

She sniffed. ‘I want to stay with you.’

‘You won’t get in trouble if you leave early.’

‘I want to stay,’ she repeated, much firmer this time.

‘Alright, darling.’ He reached out and stroked her hair behind her ear, running hid hand down to the back of her neck and grazing his nails over the skin there. ‘May I kiss you?’

She let him kiss her on the mouth. She responded with an endearing level of gentle tenderness. Like she was afraid of hurting him. He was delighted to discover she had own endearingly shy way of showing romantic affection.

They sat together with their foreheads touching.

‘You have a bit of mascara on your face.’

She laughed and pushed him away from her to go to the bathroom. When she emerged having pulled herself together, Frank offered his outstretched hand.

‘Come on then, darling,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

[poignantpulchritude]

Silly Pleasures-Chapter 4

“Hey! I thought we agreed, switch off each song? You’re taking advantage of the aux,” Dallas grumbled down by my side.

“Just one more, I need to hear High Horse again to lift my spirits,” I responded, snarling at the dull pain on my hip. I heard Dallas’s mumbled complaints, but he allowed me to play the Kacey Musgraves song to completion. When he heard the beginnings of a Jimi Hendrix guitar riff, I could practically feel his shoulders relax. “You’re so annoying,” I griped. 

“If you’re not careful this tiger will end up looking like the outline of Brazil.” I rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth at his words. Though the pain was subtler than the burning I felt when getting my foot tattooed, the tiger (Cecelia) that was getting inked on my skin was quadruple its size. I could only take the constant pain for so long before I started getting snippy. 

“The outline is done, so I’ll head out for a smoke, and then we’ll finish this baby,” Dallas told me fifteen minutes later, finishing the last few lines as he spoke. To signal break time, he slapped me hard on my thigh, near my burning hip.

“I fucking hate you,” I shuddered, looking straight into his eyes. Dallas laughed and made his way around the bed to his cigarettes resting on the counter.

“You still not smoking?” he asked, his Texan drawl coming through.

“Nope, not letting these Europeans have their way with me yet.”

“Be back here in fifteen,” he replied, ignoring my last statement to walk out the back door of the tattoo parlor. I shimmied off the bed, moving slow, making sure not aggravate my hip. The t-shirt dress I was wearing was long enough to leave the shop in and not look like I was only half dressed. I slipped on my yellow checkered vans, looking suspiciously like a girl from a Metro Station music video, and hobbled my way out the front of the shop. Union Jack was a small parlor, nestled between a barber shop and a conveyor belt sushi restaurant in the middle of Shoreditch. Beyond the incredible curry found in the area, the neighborhood also had my favorite assortment of sex shops whenever I needed to pick up some new accessories for work. 

I made my way inside the little sushi house, ordered my simple spicy tuna roll, devoured it in minutes, and trekked a whole 10 meters to get back inside Union Jack. It was a new personal record. Despite how short the journey was to me, it seemed that, in my absence, the entire atmosphere of the shop had changed. Dallas’s co-worker, Angie, was speaking excitedly to two young men facing away from me as I walked in. I identified one of them instantly. 

The shorter of the duo turned around to see who entered, giving me a polite smile before turning around to Angie again. While I attempted to maneuver around to Dallas’s alcove without alerting Harry, the back door slammed forcefully. The slam was followed by a typical Dallas yell. “Jeanne baby get your ass back in here, let’s demolish this tiger!” 

I felt my neck heat up and chest flush red. As soon as Dallas rounded the corner to the main room, he paused, looking both alarmed and confused. “Oh, hey,” he started. “Mates,” I closed my eyes in irritation. “Sorry about the noise,” he chuckled awkwardly, considerably quieter than moments before. To make things even worse, he attempted to motion to me, covertly, to return to his side. Being subtle, however, was never Dallas’s strong suit. 

“No worries, good to know the place is so lively,” Harry’s friend spoke, looking strangely like the lovechild of Ed Sheeran and Chris from series three of Love Island. It was at this point that Harry decided to turn around to look and see who Dallas was motioning to. He found me. I could see the usual, polite smile start to form on his face and then the shift happened. Once he grasped who he was looking at, his smile went from that of a man sitting in a press conference to a straight line-not from anger, but from confusion. And then again, another second passed and it changed, his eyebrows rose and a genuine smile appeared on his face. I scurried towards Dallas before I could see anymore. 

“Hey!” Harry exclaimed, halting me right before I could fully get to Dallas’s room. I did not mean to be rude, but considering my overly flirtatious last meeting with him, I felt incredibly awkward.

“Hi,” I turned around, pretending that I did not notice it was him before I tried to run away. “It’s nice to see you again,” I said, clenching my teeth tightly to form an uncomfortable smile. I silently cursed myself at my assumption, as well, not sure if he wanted to pretend like we had not met previously. 

“Fantastic to see you,” he smiled. I just stood in front of Dallas as silence started to creep over the room. “Are you getting a tattoo?” Harry asked to break the stillness, though I got the feeling that I was the only one who found the silence difficult.

“In the process, would you like to see the style?” Dallas quickly asked, taking over the conversation. He turned me to the side and lifted the bottom of my shirt to reveal the giant tiger on the side of my left hip. Basically, my butt. Out. In front of Harry Styles.

A startled yelp left my throat along with a, “What the fuck,” I whisper sharply to Dallas. I hesitated, deciding not to shove down my shirt again in case that made the entire situation even more uncomfortable.

“You see, I usually do traditional style, but she’s one of my favorite clients to test out new stuff on so I went a bit into east Asia for line inspiration,” Dallas spouted out. I could see instantly what he was doing, using this time to try to sell his tattoo skills to Harry. Hoping, no doubt, for a famous client to bring in more money and visitors. 

“Amazing,” Harry responded, not really looking at my tattoo and instead attempting to make eye contact with me. My brown eyes were looking in every direction except his. “So, how are you? I haven’t seen you around much.” I wanted to respond sarcastically, asking in what universe would he just ‘casually’ see me around, but I held it in. Dallas also took this time to let go of my shirt, catching on that Harry was not really interested in his technical skills.

“Well, London is a big town.”

“Really? I find it rather small,” Harry retorted sweetly. I gave him a tight-lipped smile, not really sure what else to do. It had been two weeks since the incident at Paradise and with the aid of my friends, I was unable to shake the embarrassment. Though, I still could not figure out if I was more mortified at my drunken behavior or upset that I did not end up hanging around him for longer. That could have been my chance to hook up with a pop star. In my current state, I’m sure he found that possibility quite far-fetched. 

“I’m Eliot,” Harry’s friend spoke after another moment of silence.

“Oh ha, sorry, I’m Jeanne. Nice to meet you.” My words were rushed and I decided to put my right hand forward to shake his. Eliot gave me an odd look before agreeing to the gesture. To ensure my follow through, I then decided to shake Harry’s hand. I saw his amused expression behind the words, “Hello Jeanne.” A strange feeling coursed through me when he spoke my name for the first time, his lips forming around the word delicately. It was only after I pulled away from his grasp that I realized how wet and sweaty my hands felt. I discretely whipped my hand on my shirt and I cleared my throat, finally saying, “Well lads, lovely to make your acquaintance, but we must return to the work at hand.” I gave a mini salute before I turned towards Dallas and pushed him into the room, crawling back on the bed and lifting my shirt.

After a few moments of silence as Dallas set up his equipment, he asked, “Did you realize that you just put on an English accent for those departing, lovely words?” He giggled like a prepubescent boy. Embarrassment washed over me yet again.

“Oh, fuck me dude!” I exclaimed and slapped my hand to my forehead. 

“I’m sure he thought that was super cool. You’re not like other girls, ya know?” Dallas responded sarcastically. I rolled my eyes and instead of responding, I reached for my phone and put on Kacey Musgraves once more. “Okay, not cool,” Dallas complained, starting up the needle and continuing my ink.

*

An hour and fifteen plays of High Horse later, my tiger was complete. I was always drawn to aggression in art and that displayed perfectly on my hip. A Bengal tiger prowled down my side as if it were a large branch in the jungle. 

“Thanks man,” I breathed out, glad for the constant burn to be absent. 

“I always take care of my girl,” Dallas smiled, showing off his big gap between his two front teeth. I ruffled his blond, shaggy hair and moved to stand up to be wrapped. “You know the aftercare drill obviously, but I do want to remind you that this is not the time to try out a new whip on your thigh for your daddies.”

“Um okay, you are never calling them that in front of me ever again,” I recoiled. He finished the wrapping and headed towards the main room so he could process my credit card.

“Whatever, you know what I mean,” he said, now behind the main counter, “Leave the whips and chains alone for a bit.”

“Whips and chains?” I heard an amused voice ask from across the room. I felt like I was going into cardiac arrest. For some reason, I assumed that whatever brought Harry and Eliot into the shop would have ended long before I left, leaving me free to exit without their presence. I was wrong.

“She works with horses,” Dallas told him quickly. I shot him an angry look.

“Oh really, that’s exciting. Do you play polo or…?” I was shocked again that Harry attempted to make actual conversation with me, especially after my accent blunder earlier.

“Oh, no I don’t work with horses, he’s just being an asshole.” Harry looked confused so I felt compelled to answer him myself. “I’m a…model…of the sort.”

Harry looked attempted to look impressed, but I could really see that my answer only muddled him further. Though I didn’t know his entire life story, I knew enough about Harry to know that his previous girlfriends were almost all thin models above 5’9. My short stature and thick thighs did not really fit into that stereotype. 

As I gave my card to Dallas, Harry stood by silently, almost begging through his body language for me to initiate conversation. I conceded. “So, come here often?” Not the smoothest, but it was passable. 

“No actually, my mate is getting his sleeve worked on. I usually go to a spot up in North London.” I just nodded, examining the smattering of tattoos visible on his arms.

“Cool mermaid,” gesturing to the ink on near his elbow, “I thought about getting one, but was not really sure if I wanted her to be coy or murderous so I gave up.” I wasn’t really thinking as I spoke. I found it easier to have my routine, weird conversations when I was not looking directly into his eyes. I chose, instead, to focus extensively on the topless sea creature on his arm. 

“Huh, interesting. I think this one does both. She kills with her beauty,” he replied, looking down at his tattoo. I nodded silently, not realizing until it was too late that I was tracing the line work with my black fingernail. Harry didn’t seem to mind that I was touching him relatively intimately, but I decided to pull away anyways. I turned back to Dallas who had a puzzled expression on his face, looking at me like I was an alien from another galaxy. He slowly handed me my card back as I widened my eyes at him in an effort to stop his behavior. 

“Thanks Dally boy,” I said sharply to him, roughly placing my tip for him in his hands before turning back to Harry again. I was not too sure how to end the conversation and leave unscathed. “Well, nice seeing you again.”

“Yea! How’s the tat?” Of course, he wanted to continue on. 

“Oh, Cecelia is doing swell.”

“Who?” 

“My tiger.”

I heard Dallas snort behind the counter. I struggled, forcing myself to not glare at him, before continuing. “I named her,” I said finally.

He smiled back. “Sick. I hope I can see Cecelia some time.” My eyebrows immediately rose at the statement, shock overtaking my entire being. “Oh no, no, not like that. Ha, I don’t know what I meant really, ignore that!” Harry followed up quickly, turning beet red. It was slightly comical to listen to his thick accent stutter over his words.

In an effort to make him feel less uncomfortable and dig myself into a deeper hole, I replied to his statement with, “That’ll be 50 pounds!”

For a moment, I thought it was funny. 

It slipped out so fast, I did not even comprehend that I not only passed myself off as a prostitute, but that I priced myself way to cheaply. I shook my hair into my face, to hide my mortified expression. Of course, my statement definitely made him feel better about his own declaration, his quiet laughter coming through. “I’ll be going now. Bye Harry,” I rushed out, speaking mostly to the floor as I turned to leave, jacket in hand. 

“Wait!” Harry followed quickly behind me. I turned to see his excited face and phone in hand. Large hands. I gulped. “Could I get your number? Maybe we could get a drink or something, you were a good laugh a few weeks ago.” I wanted to remind him that we met for a total of five minutes two weeks ago, but I was in too much shock to respond. Instead, and shockingly I might add, I grabbed his phone and entered my number, leaving a tiger emoji next to my name. When I looked up again, he was smiling brightly, putting his big dimple on display. It was truly hard not to smile back. 

“See you later Harry,” I breathed out. As I turned to head out of the door, pulling on my black jacket, I realized that my statement invited him to reach out to me. I wasn’t mad about it. I was terrified though.