#she has how many songs and its always the same three songs on repeat wherever i go

[unamused-kookaburra]

I wish you could block tags irl because I'm so sick of hearing about taylor swift

[cameroncreative]

Lost But Not Forgotten

Cross Posted on my Ao3 if you want to read it there instead!

Title: Lost But Not Forgotten

Word Count: 2658 words

Summary: What if Eri got hit with the quirk erasing bullets?

Izuku quickly rushed the little girl in his arms to the closest ambulance. He gently laid her on the gurney. “Thank you, sir. We can take it from here.” They went to remove him from the ambulance but failed.

“I’m not leaving her. She is at a high risk of being targeted again, and I need to get to the hospital as well. It would be logical to let me ride with you and solve both of those issues at once.” He made sure to a level head and give a logical explanation to stay with Eri.

“Okay sir, but we don’t have another gurney for you.” She told him as a last-ditch effort to get him to leave and seek help himself.

“That’s fine. Please focus on Eri, I’ve dealt with worse. I just need some gauze to help stop the bleeding, and I’ll be fine until we get to the hospital.” Izuku sat in the corner of the ambulance to make sure he stayed out of the way as they helped patch up Eri.

----

Izuku uses little bursts of One For All to avoid the spikes shooting out of the ground. Eri clung to his back like a koala, as well as secured with Mirio’s cape. Her quirk rewinding the injuries just as fast as they happened.

Looking around she noticed one of the men start to sit up. He looked around and spotted the gun from earlier. Izuku landed the finishing punch to overhaul, as the other guy loaded the gun with the other red bullet. Izuku untied the cape from around her and placed her on the ground to check for any injuries. He still had his back to the man and hadn’t noticed that he had woken up.

Eri saw him go to pull the trigger and tried to move her hero out of the way. To try and save the person who was able to save her. She heard Izuku scream before she felt the sharp burn in her arm where the bright red bullet embedded its self.

Mirio quickly knocked out Nemoto and place cuffs on him, but the damage was already done. Eraserhead did the same to Overhaul. Izuku picked up Eri into his arms and ran to the ambulances. If tiny sparks of green lighting buzzed around his legs, no one noticed.

----

As soon as they got to the hospital they rushed Eri off to remove the bullet and heal any injures that needed healing quirks to fix. One of them directed Izuku to a nurse who helped patch up his remaining injuries. He had cuts and hairline fractures in both of his legs. Recovery girl was on her way and would be able to fix him up quickly as long as he laid there and didn’t aggravate or worsen his injures before she arrived.

Every time a nurse or doctor came in he asked about Eri.

How is she?

Was the surgery successful?

Can I see her?

Did she make it?

None of them had any answers for him. Finally, Aizawa showed up. Eri was to be put in his care after she recovered since he could help control her quirk, but something he said made Aizawa stop before leaving, “But she doesn’t have her quirk right now?”

“What?”

“She got hit by one of the red bullets. The ones they said permanently erases someone’s quirk. The only thing is that we know the bullets were made with her blood and quirk, so I’m not sure how she’ll react to it. Maybe-”

“Why wasn’t I informed of this before now?”

“Well, I wanted to make sure she didn’t lose too much blood. Especially since Kai and yakuza were already taking her blood to make the bullets. So I quickly got her to an ambulance. I’m sorry I didn’t inform anyone, but I’m not sorry about trying to save her.” Aizawa sighed.

“You did the right thing, Problem child. Recovery Girl arrived and she's helping some of the more critical patients, as well as Eri. Don’t move until she gets here. If I learn anything before then I’ll let you know.” Aizawa left to wherever Eri was, as Izuku laid back into the bed. Even as the adrenaline wore off his thoughts never slowed.

Is she okay?

Did she lose her quirk?

Will the bullet affect her differently since it was made from her blood?

Why did she try and save me, when I was supposed to be the one saving her?

Will I ever get to see her again?

----

Thankfully everything worked out. Eri did lose her quirk, but there doesn’t seem to have any other backlash from the bullet except a small starburst shaped on her arm. She was really happy when she learned that she was able to match her hero with their scars.

Aizawa and Yamada sill adopted her. Hitoshi and her are adorable playing with the cats. Plus, Aizawa emotionally adopted Izuku as well as being Hitoshi’s boyfriend. Izuku and Eri have become unofficial siblings.

Recently though, Eri’s been really tired and even passed out once while they were playing. They brought her to a good friend of Recovery Girls’s whose quirk is that she’s able to touch a person and see their entire medical history from surgeries to the paper cut you got at eight years old.

Eri’s body had been using her quirk to undo the damage Overhaul did when she was with him. Someone can only be taken apart and put back together so many times. Now that she doesn’t have her quirk her body is failing. “Is there any way to reverse it?” Izuku asked at the same time Aizawa asked, “How much longer does she have?”

“Aizawa! You can’t, no no no. There has to be a way to fix this!” Izuku plead. The doctor looked at him sadly.

“The damage isn’t something even Recovery Girl’s quirk can heal. Image having a scar that was heal and reopened constantly. Her quirk was able to go back before the scar was even there and remove it. But we can’t heal the scar once it’s healed. Based on how fast this happened and how long she was in his care, she probably has about one to two months left. Even then she will probably be in excruciating pain if she lived longer than that.” Izuku just sat down and held Eri who had fallen asleep earlier and cried.

One to two months.

Excruciating pain.

Can’t be healed.

‘I can’t lose her. She just started to warm up to us. I was supposed to save her! I’ll do my best to protect you. Make every day the best you’ve ever had. I promise. We’re lucky the league of villains already killed Overhaul or we might have had a repeat of the stain incident.’

The next month and a half passed way quicker than anyone wanted.

Picnics in the park.

Ice cream after school.

Movie nights with all of them cuddled together.

Makeover night with class 1A.

The spring festavatle.

Eri smiling.

More doctor visits.

Nightmares and screams.

Pain…

----

They woke up to the loud screams coming from Eri’s room. They all rushed to see what happened. Izuku reached her first and quickly woke her up from the nightmare. As soon as she was awake she grabbed onto Izuku like her world depended on it. Aizawa, Yamada, and Hitoshi were quick to join the hug.

Aizawa started to hum her favorite lullaby to help her get back to sleep as Izuku gently rocked her in his arms. As the song came to a close, the hiccupping sobs had stopped and her breathing slowed. The rest of them took and breath and relaxed. Crisis averted.

Izuku looked back to the sister he promised to protect. She looked so peaceful, almost too peaceful. She wasn’t moving. He quickly moved his hand under her nose to check if she was breathing.

Nothing.

He jumped up with her in his arms. And placed her on the floor. “Get Recovery Girl! She stopped breathing!” He faintly heard Hitoshi yell at Aizawa, but couldn’t focus on what they were saying as he made sure her airway was open and started chest compressions.

1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . . 7 . . . 8 . . . 9 . . . 10 . . . 11 . . . 12 . . . 13 . . . 14 . . . 15 . . . 16 . . . 17 . . . 18 . . . 19 . . . 20 . . . 21 . . . 22 . . . 23 . . . 24 . . . 25 . . . 26 . . . 27 . . . 2- he felt himself be pulled away from Eri as recovery Girl quickly attached the patches of the AED on her body and yelled “Clear!” as they charged up and shocked her lifless body, but ti was no use.

It was too late, She was gone and they could all feel it. Even though Recovery Girl whispered it after the second shock, it was heard loud and clear in the room.

Time of Death, 2:33 am

You could hear the tump of a body hitting the ground as Izuku fell to the ground by Hitoshi’s feet. Hitoshi sat down next to him and held him as they both cried over the loss of their sister.

Even though Aizawa and Yamada, and even Hitoshi a bit, had accepted that she didn’t have that much longer with them, Izuku still was trying to find a way to heal her. Izuku took her death the hardestest. He still wanted to believe that he could save her. He couldn’t accept that this was the end for her.

All Might showed up and help Recovery Girl bring Eri’s body to the infirmary until she could be buried. The rest of the Erasermic family ended up in the living room. Crying and holding each other until they passed out from exhaustion.

The next day they were nowhere to be found. Midnight and Nezu took over their classes. No one but All might, Recovery Girl, and Nezu knew what happened last night. The remaining members of the Erasermic family ended up at the Midoriya house in the morning for some much-needed food and comfort.

----

Inko was sitting on the crunch reading a book when she heard a knock at the door.

Did Mitsuki decide to come over?

Did Izuku need something?

Is Izuku okay?

She opened to door only to see a green blur capture her in a hug. She panicked until she notices the familiar dark green bird’s nest buried in her shoulder. Looking back to the open door she noticed the other three standing there as well. “Shota, Hizashi, Hitoshi, please come in.” Her son hesitantly let go and was immediately latched onto Hitoshi’s side. Even when Izuku was young he was always comforted by physical touch. This was made worse as he started school, and the bullying started. He distanced himself from her so she wouldn’t worry about the cuts and burns that started to litter his body.

Of course, she noticed, but she hoped he would come to her about it. Instead, he became touch starved and now craves physical effect, but only trusts certain people to touch him. Hitoshi lifted his boyfriend up and carried him to his room. As soon as he laid Izuku on the bed and cuddled close to him, Inko laid the weighted blanket over them.

Five minutes later Izuku stood up and came back with a white and red unicorn plush. He placed it between them when Hitoshi realized that it was Eri’s weighted and scented plush that she left here. The smell of candy apples started to fill the room as Izuku grabbed his hand placed it over the unicorn. He quickly caught on to what Izuku wanted and intertwined his hand with Izuku’s and rested it on the plush like they used to do when they cuddled with Eri on nights her nightmares got really bad.

“Would you two like some tea or coffee?” Inko asked the two gentlemen cuddled on the couch as she walked back into the living room. Yamada spoke up.

“Just a black coffee for Sho, and earl grey tea for me, thank you.”

Inko placed the kettle on the stove. Both men joined her in the kitchen. “So I noticed Izuku is extra cuddly today. Did something happen to him? Is that why you’re here?” She made sure to be blunt and straight to the point like she knew Aizawa preferred.

“Early this morning Eri passed.” Inko dropped the teaspoon she was holding for the tea. “Izuku’s not taking it too well.” Inko went over and engulfed both men in a hug. The tree of them had gotten closer. Aizawa had emotionally adopted Izuku, Inko emotionally adopted Hitoshi and Eri.

“H-how, how-” She took a breath before continuing, “How did she pass?” she asked gently.

“We went to comfort her after a nightmare. As she fell back to sleep her breathing stopped. We got Recovery Girl as Izuku started CPR, but it was too late.” Hizashi informed her.

She reached up and kissed both men on their cheeks as she pulled them into another hug. All of them we also touch starved and needed each other.

~~~~

Even once they returned to class, Izuku wasn’t the same. Katsuki has started dropping off a bento box where Izuku and Hitoshi ate after noticing Izuku didn’t want to be in the cafeteria but also didn’t bring lunch usually. Eventually, he started sitting with them at lunch. The three of them became closer. Hitoshi learned of their past, and if he made Katsuki do the macarena around the gym during their next class train session, well that’s totally unrelated.

One day they were studying in Izuku’s room when Izuku began to look for his textbook when he found a piece of candy apple red fabric. He had never given it back to Mirio after the raid since it helped Eri calm down after panic attacks and nightmares.

“-uku, Izuku, DEKU!” HE looked up at his boyfriend’s worried face.

“Zuku, you’re crying. What ha- Is that Miro’s cape?” he nodded slowly as more tears fell onto the fabric.

“I couldn’t save her! I promised I would save her!” He leaned into his chest, the fabric falling in favor of hugging him.

“This isn’t your fault. No one blames you, Zuzu. You rescued her from Overhaul. You are her hero.”

“I rescued her, but he still won! I couldn’t stop her pain. I should have never taken my eyes off of them. I could have stopped the bullet from ever hitting her. She would have still had her quirk. She could have healed. She would have survived!”

“Why are you even still with me Hitoshi? If I had done better your sister would still be here. Kacchan, you as well. You probably think I’m pathetic for not being able to save a single kid. I just don’t get it!” Izuku tried to pull away from them, but they just held him closer.

“Zuku, Izuku look at me.” He raised his head slowly. “First off, she was just as much your sister as mine. Second, you’re the reason I got a little sister in the first place. You did you’re very best, and it’s not your fault. The only people I blame are Overhaul and the rest of the Yakuza who sat back and let him do this. You did something about it. You got her out of that situation. I’m still here because of all of that and more. You are so amazing and you don’t even realize it.” He softly kissed Izuku’s head.

“I know I don’t have the greatest track record for sticking by you-” Hitoshi snorted, “Fine! I’m shit at it, okay! I know, but I’m not going anywhere. We’ll be the wonder duo again, plus this purple emo tagging along, hahaha. But seriously, we’re not going anywhere.”

The next day the three boys didn’t show up to class. When Aizawa went looking for them, he found them cuddled together on the floor. Mirio’s cape is on the ground next to them.

[dalamjisung]

bedroom ceiling ✽ bang chan

word count: 2623

genre: angst

pairing: bang chan x reader

description: you type and delete and type and delete and wonder when will you finally send.

[inspired on the song BEDROOM CEILING by SODY: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IbUOL39weZY]

Hey.

Hey

He

H

…

You delete the message once again. The blue and grey bubbles taunting you as you sigh and toss to the other side, eyes falling on the alarm clock. A present, but you rather not remember that. 3:14AM, it says, and you really wish you could convince yourself that the clock is wrong and that it’s barely midnight. 

“I need sleep,” You murmur, almost like a plea to the emptiness that surrounds you. 

Your window, big and open, allows the outside light to shine in the small room. The moon is barely a sliver, looking like a tired eye that is barely open. His eyes used to be bright like that, even when he was tired. You shake your head, trying to avoid every and all memories of him; of his eyes and his smile. 

“I need to sleep,” You repeat yourself, tears stuck on your throat, pressuring the feelings you’ve been keeping in, out. “Please let me sleep.”

You roll onto your back, eyes boring holes in your ceiling. You observe its unmoving whiteness, its constant sameness and you can’t help but wonder why hasn’t it changed? Why am I the only one that’s changed? Your phone shines and you grab it so fast that it almost flies out of your hand. A message, although not from him. Wheein, your best friend, has been texting you for almost two weeks in a row, wondering what’s going on, why don’t you pick up, why is he avoiding her, why, why why why– but you don’t know. You don’t know why every time the phone rings is another cut to your heart, and you don’t know why you know it’s not him calling. You don’t know why he left and left his things, and you don’t know why leaving the house feels like leaving him, so you just stay in. But you can’t tell her that; it would only upset her, and you don’t know why you should care, but maybe it’s because that’s the only thing you have to care about right now. There are many ‘don’t know’s’ and ‘maybe’s’ and you like to think that it’s not just you. 

These walls, you think, looking around your room. No more frames or unreleased posters on the walls. No  more doodles on the door or the floor or the window. No more CD’s or demos or music sheets. No more him or his friends or your friends. These walls know a lot. More than our friends combined. What would Wheein say if she saw me like this, typing things that I’ll never have the courage to send? What would she do? If she saw what these walls did, what would she do?

In the end, you fall asleep from exhaustion at six in the morning. The sun wakes you up, though, a couple of hours later, and once again, you call work to tell them that you are still feverish and that by Monday you should be all healed. You’re expected to, anyways. The day goes by in a rush, and you spend the day typing and deleting and typing and deleting and typing and deleting and. And then you switch to your notes, and you type and type and type and you don’t need to delete anything because no one will ever see this. No one should.

You left today. First me, then the room. Through the hallway, then out the door, and then out the building. You left in a snowy night when I needed you to stay warm, and I think I’ll always remember that when I see snow. How you left. Today. 

I miss you. I tried to text you this today but decided not to. You must be, or at least should be, hurting too– if not for me, then for the three years you lost on me. I prefer to think that you’re hurting for me, but it’s okay if you’re not. Really. 

I tried to text you today. I gave up after ‘hey.’ You left so I should respect that, right? You chose leaving, and I guess I chose letting you go. I just thought you should know I regret it. I’ve been regretting it… everyday. I miss you, but I don’t think that counts for much now, anyways. Good luck on whatever you’re doing, wherever you are. 

The list goes on and on with unsend crafted texts and you follow your ritual of reading them all again, hoping to sleep. You don’t sleep at night, but you still hope to. Sleeping is the only time you have that your heart doesn’t hurt, that your mind doesn’t think, and that you soul doesn’t cry. You wonder if he feels the same but then you remember all the times you two fought over his bad sleeping habits and his overworking tendencies; and you achieve what you want. 

Once again, you cry yourself to sleep.

                                                       ————————————

The doorbell rings and you feel anxious. It’s been two weeks and some days since your routine of nothingness has been broken and opening the door for an unknown visitor counts as a disturbance.

“Who is it?” You shout from the safety of your living room.

“You better open up, Y/N Y/L/N,” Wheein voice is muffled but you’d recognize it anywhere. “Or so help me god, I will kick this door down.”

You run to obey her, knowing that she isn’t lying. You open up a sliver, at first, afraid of her reaction to your physical appearance; you have dark circles under your eyes and you clearly lost weight. You know your friend to make a big deal out of issues and although you know it’s only because she cares, you son’t have the energy to sit down with her and explain everything.

“Bitch, you better let me in,” She seethes. “For your own good.”

Sighing, you obey once again, swinging the door open. Her gasp is ridiculously loud and, if possible, makes you feel even worse. 

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You frown. Why didn’t you? 

“I don’t know…” You mumble, suddenly embarrassed for not relying on her when you needed the most. 

“You don’t know?!” She repeats, voice softening out of offense. “I called Felix to know what was going on… and imagine my surprise when he tells me that Chan up and left!”

“Wheein–“

“No,” She interrupts, hand in front of you. “I know what you are going to say. It wouldn’t bother me. It wouldn’t upset me. It wouldn’t anger me. Y/N, and your boyfriend just left. You don’t talk to your family and you are to shy to talk to other people about your private life. Who are you going to rely on if not your best friend? This is what I’m here for, love. For you!”

“I’m sorry,” You apologize, voice choked up with tears. No matter how much you cry, you just can’t get used to the feeling of crying. “I’m so sorry, but I felt so lost and alone and I didn’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean?” Wheein grabs your hand and takes you to your couch. You look at her, but you don’t really feel like you’re seeing her. 

You don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to, you think to yourself, trying to focus. 

“I let him leave,” You mumble, closing your eyes tightly. “I didn’t know what to then and I let him leave and it feels as if he took me with him and left… this.”

“Y/N, all you had to do was call me,” She says, hugging you close. 

“I can’t sleep,” You tell her. As if you open a gate, you tell her everything. “I can’t eat, I can’t focus, I can’t do anything. If I don’t make myself cry myself to exhaustion, I stay awake all night, replaying the fight, and then the pointing, and the blaming. I see him leave, every night. I hear his voice and his laughter and his cry and I just feel like I’m going insane.”

“I’m going to assume you haven’t talked to him ever since…” She whispers. You lay down, head on her lap as she caresses your hair. 

“I haven’t,” You confirm. “I tried texting him, but it all ends up on my notes and I just can’t do it. I’m ashamed. That I didn’t fight. For him. Me… us.”

“It’s not on you, Y/N,” Wheein tries to reassure you. “It really isn’t.”

“It sure feels like it is,” You blink, trying to stay awake, but soon succumbing to her comforting kindness.

“But–“

“I prefer it to be my fault then his,” You yawn. “I don’t want him hurting, Wheein. Ever.”

She just nods, head falling back and you just know she’s doing her damn best not to cry for you. You chuckle lightly, finally feeling tired enough to sleep. You feel your friend moving after what feels like a couple of hours but you don’t pay her much attention, assuming she’s leaving for the night.

The day follows like the other ones, with the addition of Wheein. She is surprisingly supportive of your sedentary coping mechanisms and joins you in your third Friends marathon since the break up. The sun shines bright today, and you can’t help but zone out while your friend points at something that Rachel did. You can’t remember the last time you actually went out and enjoyed the sun, so you reach out, fingers dancing through the rays as if you had to move it around to feel the familiar warmth you crave so much. You don’t– feel it, that is, and you let out a disappointed chuckle. What are you expecting? Some guidance? Some comfort, from this bright ball of fire? A memory, perhaps? Like the one of you two in the park on your birthday and–

“Y/N?” Wheein calls. “Are you listening?”

“Huh?” You look at her, eyes wide in surprise. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

She smiles a sad type of smile and you hate it. The pity make you feel even worse. 

“Yeah,” She nods to the center table. “Your phone.”

You look at the device and shakes you head.

“I’ll see it later.”

“You might wanna see it now.”

You look at her suspiciously. “Why?”

She just shrugs. “Because.”

You shake your head again. “Later.”

For some reason, you don’t feel anxious anymore. Just fear.

Fear because you are either over it, or you gave up. And both of those make you want to cry.

                                                      ————————————

Jeongin: Noona, he’s not well.

Jeongin: Noona, please call him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. 

Jeongin: Noona, please. I’m scared. He is angry and sad and I’m pretty sure he’ll collapse anytime now.

Jeongin’s messages really test your strength. You want to comfort the young boy, but at the same time you know that that’s not your task anymore. They are his family. They are supposed to comfort him. You have to understand that. You try– you really do– but you can’t help but miss those boys. Jisung and his silly jokes that piss off Hyunjin; Felix and Changmin bickering like two brothers; Seungmin clinging to Jeongin. 

And you miss him. You miss Bang Chan and how he mothers the boys around. How he always demands the best of his members, but is also the first one to offer a hand for any difficulties they might stumble upon. You miss his stubbornness and the many times you had to carry him to bed from his make-shift studio in your apartment’s coffee table. You miss how he hogs all the covers and instead of sharing them, pulls you closer to cuddle, and you especially miss how he wakes you up every morning when he tries to sneak back out to work. You wonder who’s forcing him to sleep since you’re not there to cling onto his limbs and force him to sleep just thirty more minutes. 

Who takes care of him now? Who remembers him of his meals? Who makes him go to sleep? Once Chan starts working, it’s really hard for him to take a break. Who remembers him of that?

Y/N: I’m sorry. If he doesn’t want me to contact him, there is nothing I can do, Jeongin.

Jeongin: Who said he doesn’t want you to?

Y/N: He is the one that left. That says enough.

You put the phone away and decide to take a shower. It’s been a while since you truly enjoyed the feeling of the scorching hot water falling on your back, and you stay there until the water isn’t hot anymore and the day isn’t ending anymore– it’s over. You get dressed on sweats that are too right for you and you can’t help but miss his oversized hoodies and how they felt as if you were being constantly cuddled. The bed feels cold and hard but you don’t care, exhaustion finally washing over your body. 

Hands moving to the phone in the corner of the bed, it’s almost as if your finger involuntarily open the text message app, typing and deleting and typing and deleting and. You take a deep breath; and type. And type and type and send. It doesn’t feel as cathartic as you’d wish, but it feel like something– something important. You know he’s not gonna answer, at least not tonight, since he’s probably drowning himself in work, so you open the chat again, finger caressing your blue bubbles.

I stay up late and I talk to the moon

And I can't stop telling him all about you

Wonder if you do the same thing I do

Your constant companion shines through the window once again, offering you some dim light, enough to allow you to see shadows of the objects in your room, but not enough for you to know what is what. Is that how he felt with you? Could he tell you loved him? Or did you dim your emotions?

These four white walls they know more than my friends

They watch me type messages I'll never send

This is the place that I just can't pretend to be alright

The memories of him in your bed come back, and you smile, nostalgia taking the place of hurt. Chan always said that inside those four walls, you didn’t have to pretend. Happiness, sadness, anger, regret. You could feel it all. And now here you are, wishing you didn’t, actually, felt all of those. How ironic. 

Is your bedroom ceiling bored like mine?

Of you staring at it all the time

'Cause it's seen so many nights

Where I cry and I yell at the sky

For not telling you how I feel

Does he? Does he stare at his ceiling, his walls, and feels as embarrassed as you? As impotent? Does he regrets walking out as much as you regret not going after him? You should’ve said, should’ve shouted, should’ve cried– you should’ve something. Hiding is never the answer. Chan loved you with all he had, and yet, you were always too closed, too shy to love him back. It wasn’t fair. So now you let him be. He chose to leave and you don’t blame him; you blame yourself instead. 

You almost put the phone down for the night, finger hovering over the side button, when you see it. The grey bubble.

…

Hey.

--------------------------------------

Heya lovelies! How is everyone doing? I hope you all enjoy this story... I’ve been feeling really down lately and got inspired to write this :P Please please please let me know what you think, you’re comments always make my day❤️ love you all and thank you for always supporting me!

[anthropwashere]

deadfic: welcome the unknown

Another one for @goodintentionswipfest, and the oldest of the lot I’ll be posting by a significant margin! As in written in 2009 old. You’ve been warned.

Gonna put the whole fic under a readmore because JTHM fics have one setting and that’s Upsetting, so have some naval gazing from me first.

2009 was uhhhhh, some kind of year for me. It was the year I graduated high school, and the year I was a little bit homeless, and the year I wished I was a little bit homeless for longer so I could have avoided some bananas shit, and the year I spent waiting on tenterhooks mid-recession before I could run from a ehhh home life off to the military.

18 year old anthrop was working through some shit while writing this thing, is what I'm saying.

This was intended as a prequel to a fic I was working on in high school, while also being kind of a stand alone fic? If you've been with me since my JTHM days (wow) you'll recognize what it might have been for, but otherwise don't worry about it. This is a bit all over the place but there are still a lot of pieces I'm fond of and honestly, it's nice to see where I was as a writer and how far I've come in comparison? Too many of us fandom writers destroy huge swaths of our work out of this terribly sad and unnecessary shame for liking "cringy" things, and to this day I regret doing the same to virtually all the things I wrote for my first few fandoms. Cheesy and heavy-handed as this fic is, it's nice to have around still, you know? I cared about this fic. Working on it kept me sane during an extremely shitty summer. I dearly wish I still had the first draft, which I remember writing in different colored markers on folded sheets of computer paper hunched up in any random little corner I could get some time alone. Alas, like 98% of the rest of my things pre-military, it's gone for good.

Title comes from Robbers on High Street's "The Fatalist," which sure was a song I had on repeat a lot back in 2009.

=

Everywhere is dirty. Filth and stink and dead particles on everything he touches. He'd fallen asleep, and somebody had broken into his house and poured the offal of a thousand trash cans onto everything and smeared it in deep. 

Asshole. 

Really though, they are all assholes. Shit-smeared animals groping around on all fours, blind and deaf and desensitized to whatever little good was left in the world around them. 

They make so much noise. All they do is scream, and whenever someone manages to gasp out a non sequitur the whole world applauds, casting them into the history books for the next generation to draw penises upon their photographs. It is all a matter of course.

It can't just be him that sees this. One look outside is enough to prove his point. Why else would he board up all the windows? To keep the assholes from looking in, of course.

The assholes are everywhere these days, screaming and fucking. Fucking. They're good at that too. Reproduction. Bucking hips and nails across skin and incredible, terrible intimacy, the exchanging of fluids. Disease of the flesh, fever of the mind. A new generation born in every positive pregnancy test, a new generation dead in every street corner abortion clinic. Babies. Disgusting, germ-ridden things. Oh God, don't let it touch him with its fat little hands shiny with saliva and the green ooze that won't cease dripping from the holes in its face. He doesn't know what'll happen, what he'll do if this thing gets too close, but he has ideas, and none of them are pleasant.

He always has ideas.

He blinks, and the baby and the stinking slut mother cooing at it with too-red lips and salon-styled hair and the bus and the roaring all vanish. He stumbles and knocks an elbow against the dresser.

The smell in here is somehow worse now. Like old vomit in high summer. Is it vomit? Is it his vomit?

He decides it's better not to now, at least not now. He feels a strange mood coming. High tide comes to drown the starfish, already dried by the sun. Perhaps it is a mood he needs, but then again, perhaps it comes too late.

Something cracks, and the edges go soft and drip in a puddle of wax.

He burns his fingers by candlelight.

=

"Johnny?"

"Bunny?"

His throat burns. It hurts to breathe.

"Oh thank God, you can hear me again. You're back."

"What—" He breaks off, coughing. Blood in his mouth, on his teeth. He licks them clean and swallows. "What are you talking about?"

Bunny sounds small and tired in his ears—

Mind?

—and there was fear, Johnny can hear it licking at the corners of Bunny's— 

His?

—voice, but it has faded with time. Johnny suspects he has been asleep for a very long time.

 "I've been trying to reach you for… God, I don't even know how long." Bunny trails off.

He looks around, his eyes struggling to see in the pre-dawn light trickling in through a dozen half-circle windows on the floor above wherever he is. More by the smell than anything, he realizes he is surrounded by blood and bodies. A part of him knows he shouldn't be comforted by this, shouldn't find this scene familiar.

And yet.

"I was scared, Nny."

He hiccups, chokes, and spits out three bullets.

=

The mirror is laughing at him.

He sneers at it. Squints as two left hands do two different things, almost identical but the blur is still visible, still there.

He was wrong, he knows that now. There isn't just one person, one world, one reality on the other side of the mirror. There are dozens, maybe hundreds. Maybe thousands. Not all at once, of course, but there seems to be another pair of eyes staring back, another mouth talking at everyone and no one, each time he looks hard enough, long enough. The edges blur, fingers drag in slow-motion arcs, teeth where teeth shouldn't be, a hundred shades of skin and hair and eyes.

He can't remember the last time he showered.

=

“You look like shit, Nny,” observes the Burger Boy.

“Yes.”

“You really should do something about it.”

“Yes.”

He drives the pen through the paper and carves something into the wood that later he won't understand.

=

Greasy. He is so greasy. The others in the mirror bow out of the way to let him see the unwashed, true reflection of himself. He makes a face, drags his cheeks down to his jaw and waggles his tongue, and the reflection follows accordingly. No blur. 

Yep, that’s him all over.

Devi screams, her face set in a terrified, furious, how-could-you-you-shithead expression, and smashes his face against the mirror. His nose breaks on impact, glass stabs, digs, and catches, and drags down his cheeks and forehead. Blood everywhere, his blood. A tooth goes flying as his chin hits the dressing table’s pitted surface with a crack that sickens him even as the edges of his sight turn black, and the pain is more than noise can express. Blood on Devi’s knuckles. Fingers ripping out his hair.

No.

Everything pauses, then it all reverses in an instant, and he is left standing before a dirty mirror with too many faces looking back.

That already happened— a long long long long time ago

—and he is better now. Devi is better now too. He hasn’t talked to her in awhile but she is around, she is there, and everything is okay now. There is some blood dried into the floorboards still—was that were the stink is coming from?—but his scars have faded. He has forgiven, and he thought he had forgotten.

He’d gotten a new mirror and everything.

=

“Hi Nny.”

“Evening.”

Squee leans back on his heels before the underbelly of a machine Johnny has no understanding of and glares. With his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, smears of engine grease on his hands, sweat on his face, and looking like a mix of engineer, mad scientist, and responsible adult, Johnny has no idea how to treat the boy-now-man-next-door.

"How've you been? Whatcha been up to these days?"

There is something unspoken, something furious and accusing underneath the easy drawl of the questions. He can't imagine what Squee could be angry with him about. He is at a loss, also, at how to respond to the heavy questions thrown at him so casually. He struggles under their weight, unable to answer, unable to keep quiet, unable to lie.

Squee chuckles as he stands in one smooth motion centered on his knees and cleans his glasses with a rag from his pocket. "It's okay, shit, calm down. Not like I got a gun to your head or anything."

For some reason, he feels himself flinch. Squee's eyebrows knit and relax in an instant.

"Let's see," Squee muses. "You look like you, I'm pretty sure your car still works, and I'm currently over at Pepito's for some headfuck or another. Okay, I think I know what year this is. Awesome." He puts his glasses on and shares a smile that could cut glass.

"What are you talking about?"

Squee looks surprised, but after a moment laughs a quiet little laugh. "That's right, I forgot. This is the year you do your weird losing-time thing, yeah? Haha, you freaked me out even more all summer. I think I slept on the roof more than I did my own room. Oh God, this is even better!" He laughs again, louder, and claps a hand on the shoulder of the strange machine.

He can't think of any kind of response to this before Squee speaks again. "Fuck, Johnny, you really think seeing me at nine one day and twenty-three the next is normal?"

He thought about it. "Noooot really. No."

"That is exactly—what—How did you even recognize me?" He gestures at himself, and his eyebrows do something halfway between emulating surprise and gut-busting dislike.

"Who else could you be?"

This time his laugh is loud and body shaking, and he thumps the machine as if Johnny has said something incredibly witty. "Wow, okay, if that logic works for you it works for me, you crazy fuck."

He did not just hear that. "What did you call me?"

Squee smiles again, but his eyes remain cold and flinty and full of hate towards something—Johnny suspects—he has done in the future. Goddamnit, future self, way to ruin a good thing. But his hands still clench, his joints lock. How dare Squee? How could he?

But the boy-now-man-next-door acts as if nothing has changed. "So I can't remember how your art or lack thereof is working out in this little slice of time. You paintin' with any other color 'sides red?"

Why was Squee acting like this? "Of course I am."

He isn't.

Squee scratches his neck, scratches at scabs over long, thin lacerations in finger-shaped bruises, and Johnny wonders if what he's feeling now is how the man felt when he had still been a boy, and the scary neighbor man once crawled through the window to tell him a bedtime story. 

"You know, somehow I doubt that."

=

His fingers itch for activity. He hasn't left the house in days, maybe weeks. Does it matter?

He licks his lips and swallows, fighting down familiar urges. He can beat this.

=

"Do you have a problem with me?"

"Oh god oh god oh god why are you doing this—"

"Excuse me, I asked you a question."

Gently touch the controls, tack the pressure on, oh, just a little more. Just enough to make them scream.

=

The back of his head itches, and when he scratches his fingers come away red. No pain, just blood. So it isn't his then. But he can't remember killing anyone.

He looks away from his hand and out the window, at the outside world creeping in through the cracks between the boards. Outside there is no sun, no moon, no stars, no anything. His breath hitches.

It's raining.

He exhales.

The door is open though he doesn't remember leaving it so, so he takes the hint and walks outside. He inhales, tasting the hot summer smell of wet concrete and the cloying reek of decomposing bodies in his front yard. The million million light bulbs of the city throw their energy skyward, and the roiling clouds eat the light whole. A weird, orange glow from above casts the city into an otherworldly scene, and, feeling a little silly, he wonders if tonight might be the beginning of the apocalypse, and the idea doesn't sound half bad.

In the driveway, the concrete is slick with oil. He stands there a while, letting the rain wash the human grease out of his hair. It takes him just as long to realize his car is missing.

"That's funny," he says aloud, wiping the rainwater out of his eyes. "I don't remember teleporting home. Unless—was it Tuesday yesterday? I don't think it was, but—"

There is a soft, scared inhale of breath, a backwards scream. He turns, and there on the sidewalk is a gray woman in a bathrobe, faded coffee stains and food crusts all down her front. She is pointing at him, her face wide, frozen in a rictus grin of fear.

"What?" he asks, reality crashing into place with a shatter of glass ripping through his ears.

Her mouth moves, but the sounds that come out are backwards and insulting, and her eyes are fish eyes, wide and lidless and staring.

"What?" he asks again, sharply, his voice ugly and tasting of ashes.

"M-mon—" the woman wheezes.

Her throat is in his hands, and he doesn't recall moving from his empty driveway.

"What are you staring at? What do you want?!" he screams.

She gags and gurgles, her tubes for eating breathing talking standing bleeding; all of it collapsing under his fingers—

which hadn't been so thin a few weeks ago

—and the grin on his face is a mile wide. 

"Monster!" she whimpers as something cracks in her neck.

Monster? His hands loosen, cradle her jaw, as his mind tries to grapple with this. Why… Why would anyone call him that?

The pounding of feet, and someone wrenches the woman out of his grasp. "Jesus jump-roping Christ, Johnny!"

Dazed, he stares at the newcomer as if he's looking at everything through the wrong end of a telescope. The reek and the roaring of the public transit system returns with a bang of pneumatic doors, and Squee's mouth moves in angry shapes but the slut-mother's cooing comes out instead.

=

"You gonna pay or get off my bus?"

He looks at the bus driver, at the thick rolls of fat ballooning out underneath his sweaty, undersized uniform, a sneer pulling back the heavy flesh around pearly white teeth. He imagines jamming the steering wheel through the man's dislocated jaw and feels slightly better.

It's safe to imagine such atrocities. Imagine, but nothing more. He has to remember that.

"Hey kid! I'm talkin' to you!"

"Sorry," he manages through grinding teeth and a throat hot and restricted with anger. He deposits the required fare into the automated tray and darts across the yellow line before he can act upon his ideas.

He always has ideas.

He stumbles into an open seat as the bus jerks forward with a belch of black exhaust he can't see but can taste, heavy and gritty on his tongue. On his right, a plastic mommy bounces her little dolly on her knees. They are dressed in matching summer dresses. Disgusting.

How long has it been summer anyway?

He glances at the pair again and thumbs the volume on his CD player a little higher, fighting to keep his face neutral. He has never been fond of parents who treat their offspring like objects rather than the people they are going to be.

Something tugs on his sleeve and he recoils, crashing into the metal bars on his left. It takes everything he has not to retaliate against the foreign touch. His headphones are knocked askew by the impact, and Mozart's power vanishes, becomes tiny vibrations around his neck.

The baby, the child, the dull-eyed little girl has the ragged end of his sleeve in its shining, soaking wet hand. Through the fabric, he can feel its dampness, its heat. It babbles at him incoherently, green ooze dripping from its squashed little nose into the gaping, grinning mouth below.

"Oh, she likes you!" The mother cries, swooping in for the kill. Her smell washes over him—of heady perfume, hairspray, hysteria. He can see the makeup creases, the scars of plastic surgery, the shadow of a bruise on her shoulder half-hidden by her yellow sleeve. His mind jumps to all sorts of conclusions, and each one of them sickens him more than the last.

"Uh," he manages.

His hands twitch.

=

He is sick of this life again. All the old signs are there, everything points to one fact, but he can't bear going down that path, not yet. Later, later.

"'Later,' he says!" Crows the delighted Burger Boy. "Yes, perhaps when the scabs from the old shackles grow over the new he'll get off his scrawny ass and attempt to do something about all this!"

"Fuck you."

The Burger Boy looks at him imploringly, its meaty little hands clasped, its fangs retracted, the perfect image of a concerned friend in hideous checkered overalls. "In all seriousness, Johnny-boy, this is not something you can put off any longer. You must act now, or not at all."

"Go die in a hole."

"We both remember how effective that was the last time you tried that. Now, please—"

"Don't make me get the sledgehammer."

At least it had the decency to flinch at that, the little fuck.

The Burger Boy sighs, obviously frustrated. "I don't understand why you find it necessary to fight me so, Nny."

"Maybe it's because, oh, I don't know, you're trying to enslave me to my own kidneys?" He bites on the straw of his cherry Freezy hard enough to tear it. The plastic tastes like artificial fruit and latex gloves. "And don't call me Nny."

The Burger rolled its eyes, which shouldn't have been possible because it was pretending it was still ceramic. "So I'm no longer allowed that special little privilege, am I? Only the ghost of your dead, levitating bunny rabbit is?"

"Leave Nailbunny out of this."

"And those pathetic Doughboys as well? The very ones that conspired against you to 'serve their master', who, in case you've since forgotten, was the very creature you were charged with imprisoning behind a wall of blood and plaster?"

"That was D-Boy. Eff just wanted freedom. And really, can I blame him?" He bites the straw in half and spits it into the bathroom sink. In the mirror, his reflections mimic him, ten thousand mouths a-grinning.

"You're missing the point, though I'm hardly surprised."

A thought strikes him, and it's out of his mouth before he can think twice about it. "You know, if they ever started talking again, I think I'd still let them call me Nny. Sure, they were both exploiting my ever-increasing insanity and all that, but they were mine in the beginning. Unlike you."

It ignored the jab. "If they ever start talking again, it will be far too late."

=

There wasn't any soap in the bathroom.

=

"What the hell were you thinking?"

He blinks. "What?"

"Give me one goddamn reason, one very good goddamn reason you had for strangling my mother, or so fucking help me Johnny—!"

Squee is definitely reminding him of himself now. Great. Fantastic. Fuck.

"Um."

=

The Burger Boy scowls, its face transmogrifying into the fanged, drooling thing it really is. "You remember how terrible it was to toil under the merciless whip of the System! I know you do because I am a part of you, though you refuse to believe as such! And though you hate what I have to offer, you must realize that I am far more preferable as I am now than what I could become unless you tear free of the System's grip now!"

"I AM FREE!"

With a snap of ceramic he breaks it's right arm off, and the two of them scream in pain and hate, in the same voice, in one voice.

"I." He jabs at his chest with the arm, feeling it squirm under his fingers.

"Am." He drops it to the bloodstained linoleum.

"Free." He grinds the arm to dust under the heel of his boot. His reflections are too blurred, too scattered, to see how many follow suit.

Gripping the hole where a limb had been seconds ago, its ugly face twisted further by agony, the Burger Boy pants, "There is no such thing as freedom! No!" It screams, harsh and violent, as he opens his mouth to retort, "Listen to me. Hear me out. Please."

A heartbeat passes. Five. He closes his eyes, suddenly exhausted, and nods. The figurine sighs and leans against the faucet, settling its insect eyes on the spilled Freezy in the tub.

"Let's get one thing straight. I don't want you thinking that the puppet masters are singling you out for sport. God knows you aren't anything special. Everyone is a slave to one thing or another." It pauses to laugh bleakly. "Perhaps even those who fancy themselves the masters of this game of Monopoly must bow their neck to the chopping block one day. Who am I to know? I am but a series of chemical reactions created in the misfiring neurons of a sick man's brain. But never mind that. What I'm trying to say here is that there has been no other way. Ever. There has been no freedom, no choice. It is all preordained. This is the way of all things."

Every part of him rebels against this. No free will? Impossible. His life is his own, now more than ever. Yes, he had been a slave, once. But that had just been the luck of the draw, an accident, like winning the lottery or getting hit by a truck. It was… unpredictable, impossible to preordain. Heat in his chest, his jaw tight and creaking. "They told me—" He begins, his voice ready to rise into a shriek.

"It was only temporary. Even stone must crumble, Johnny."

His legs turn to jelly at a terrible, terrifying thought. He grips the sink, licks his lips and tastes salt and cherries and fear. In a soft, weak voice he barely recognizes as his own he finally asks, "Are they going to make me a flusher again?"

"They already have."

=

"Mom, can you make it back to the house on your own?" As he speaks, Squee performs a quick once-over on the gasping woman clinging like a burr to his chest. His face betrays him, showing the extent of the damage done even as he keeps his voice upbeat, a stream of happy reassurances pouring out with the rain even as his eyes confirm a far more dire prognosis. "Johnny and I need to, um, talk."

"Who—" Her voice fractures in her collapsed throat, and she chokes and dry heaves until her face is purple with strain. 

Squee holds her until she calms. "Johnny's our neighbor, Mom. We've lived next to him since—for as long as I can remember."

"O-oh. He looks ni-ice. I-is he a friend o-of yours?"

Squee makes a face remarkably comparable to the one a particularly vehement guest made once after Johnny had made him swallow a pound of nails. "Just—go inside, Mom. Go see if Dad's awake, okay? See if he'll call 911 for you."

"Okay sweetie." Her voice is wet and crackling, like stiff paper going soft beneath a steady drip of water. He recognizes the sound, and suspects now that he may have squeezed too hard. But she had insulted him, hadn't she? Called him a fucking monster. How could he let that go without proper retaliation?

"And tell Dad I'll be in in a min—oh festering whore tits, your eyes are bleeding."

"Don't swear, honey." 

"Sorry. Johnny?"

He can't help but flinch. "Yes?"

Squee swallows, looking almost frightened before setting his jaw and glaring hard at him. "You are going to go in your house, sit your ass down on your couch, and you are going to stay the fu—stay there until I can get Dad to give me the keys so I can get Mom to the ER. See, betcha I gotta do it 'cause Dad is an incompetent, loveless douche with a heart of coal. But I'm gonna do it fast, 'cause you and I? We need to talk."

"I—" 

Squee got him off with a sharp gesture. "Uh-uh. Not today. Not gonna play that game. Get in your house."

He got in his house.

=

"Slavery is inherent in all things, Johnny. It is only a question of to what. Once before you were selected to be a Flusher—"

"And I failed. Miserably, I might add."

The Burger Boy shook its head firmly. "You excelled."

"Clearly we're remembering my experiences in the After Life differently."

"Clearly you forget what kind of monster was imprisoned behind that wall."

"I never saw it. I died before I had the chance."

"It doesn't matter whether you saw it or not! What you had to do to keep it locked up should tell you more than enough."

"I—"

"I think somebody with a say in things liked what you were doing down here. Otherwise, why else tether you to this particular yoke a second time? If your memories of what Satan said to you are correct, you are practically the very antithesis of Flusher material!" It hobbles towards him, it's ungainly waddle exacerbated by its missing arm. Drool spills freely from between jutting fangs that cut at its lips with every overeager exclamation. "Take a good look at me, boy. The very moment the System slapped the manacles back on your wrists it began to take me as well. These changes are the result of your inaction."

His reflections smile bitterly. "You claim to be mine one minute and admit you're not the next. One or the other; it can't be both."

It stares at him with a steady, curious expression. "Can't it? The System is trying to take me from you. That is one truth. Another is that I am fighting it as best I can. Just as your Doughboys did, not so long ago."

He sneers and says nothing.

"I am resisting," the Burger Boy continues, "but I cannot win. The changes done to this form you've assigned me are the result of every foot of ground lost. You must see how much faster the transformation is in me compared to the Doughboys! You must understand that you are no longer a mere Flusher! For the Wall Monster remembers how effective it was to use your own madness against you, and now an eye is upon you, Johnny! The merciless, unflinching eye of the System in its entirety, and the System is more powerful than either of us can possibly comprehend."

He locks his fingers around the lip of the sink to keep from shaking. Slowly, the words trickle out of his mouth, pooling in a pile of warm paranoia in the drain. "Everything you say only goes to prove how much they have already conquered you, taken you from me and twisted you into some… thing. Some monster braying about hope even as it settles its jaws around my neck." 

He drops his gaze from the figurine, from the mirror, afraid of the triumph he knows he will find there. "I can't trust you."

The Burger Boy positively beams. "Now you're catching on."

=

"Nailbunny, what should I do?"

resist

"Who? Who do I fight? Him? The System?"

resist

"Whether I like it or not, he's my only source of information. Even if he's manipulating me, he at least has the decency to forewarn me, unlike his predecessors. If push comes to shove, I think I could beat him. But what—what if he's telling the truth? What if he can help me?"

resist

resist

"Nailbunny?"

resist

resist

resist

resist

resist

re—

=

"Please! Oh god, this hurts so much! Stop!"

"Shut up. The machine's barely even warmed up."

The sobbing blob tied to one of many torture devices he keeps humming at the ready cringes as his hand floats above the dial. He allows himself a brief smile.

"W-what do you want? Jesus Christ, I just m-met you! What did I even do?!"

He opens his mouth, a speech rife with injustice suffered under the merciless hands of a society dead from the neck up on the tip of his tongue, only to find himself unable to remember who this woman is and why he has her strapped into the Needler.

He laughs, and turns the dial up anyway.

=

—sist

=

The baby, the child, the dull-eyed little girl releases its iron grip on his sleeve and forgets him instantly, yet the mother perseveres, eager to speak with another human being. It seems he has no choice but to participate in a conversation with this woman until his stop, as every other seat is taken. And besides, it would be rude to just stand up and walk away.

You could kill her.

He frowns and ignores the voice, but nevertheless finds it unsettling. Meat's all for living and talking and eating and fucking and being an actual human, not murder. This is very out of character. Still pondering over it, he glances at the woman and finds her staring at him, expecting something from him.

"What?" he asks, itching to put his headphones on again. He really likes the piece vibrating against his collarbone. 

"Where did you buy your shirt?" the woman asks, as if she's repeating herself. She probably is.

He peels his eyes away from her surgically swollen lips long enough to glance down at himself. Black and gray, with an obnoxious splash of color amid the stripes that makes his head hurt. He doesn't recognize it.

"I, uh, don't remember," he says.

"Oh, that's too bad! My little brother loves that show."

He nods mutely, allowing his thumb to play with the volume of his CD player. The woman keeps talking, and Carl Orff rages at fate in a whispered rise and fall of Latin and violins.

The girl touches his hand again, and he accepts without protest that he will kill these two in their matching summer dresses with an eager blare of trumpets.

=

"Slavery to a broken machine or slavery to life and all its pains and pleasures." Meat touches his arm with its remaining hand. Through his sleeve, he can feel its dampness, its heat. "Decision time is now or never, Nny."

He laughs. "I am a broken machine."

=

Sometimes other people appear in the mirrors. Just brief flashes, overlapping the current other-self dominating the rest, and he knows it's foolish, but he can't help but wonder.

What is it like to have friends?

=

"—and it's being called the worst crime in the tri-county area since the café massacre two years ago. With twenty-seven dead at the scene and another twelve in critical condition, we here at the Channel 4 News Network can't help but agree. What do you think of it, Jeff?"

"It's a real atrocity, Nadine. The man who did this must be a real psycho, a total monster."

"Oh yes. And speaking of the killer, a woman—who has asked to remain anonymous—has stepped forward, claiming to have been at the club when the murders were committed. She also claims to be the one who halted the massacre by shooting the killer three times, despite having already been wounded."

"It is true a thus-far unidentified blood sample was recovered from the scene, as well as the bullets matching the woman's gun, but nothing conclusive has been determined yet. However, the woman has agreed to meet with a sketch artist once she's recovered from the attack, and a drawing of the killer will be sent to all media coverages when available."

"In the meantime, if anyone has any information regarding the killer or his whereabouts, we would appreciate it if you would call the number at the bottom of the screen. Please, don't hesitate—"

The reporter's face freezes for an instant before exploding in a supernova of white noise. Jolted out of a daydream, he instinctively reaches for the remote to mute the atrocious sound, but pauses before letting his hand fall. 

The sound is… oddly pleasant.

He leaves it on for three days.

=

He decides to call it Reverend Meat. It just… seems to fit.

=

He pauses at the couch only briefly, wondering what happened outside and what kind of reaction he should be having, but his legs give out and once he hits the floor it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Something skitters away, startled by the sound and vibrations of his body striking the wood. A minute passes or maybe five before it skitters back, probing his fingers with inquisitive antennae. His nerves won't respond to the signals his brain sends, to flinch away or crush the insect before it has a chance to grow bolder. He panics briefly, fear and helplessness clawing their way through his chest cavity, but then, as if a switch is flipped inside him, he relaxes.

The insect, whatever it is, takes a cautious nibble at the calloused tip of his ring finger. There is a tiny flash of pain, but no instinctive recoil from the source of the hurt. He is truly unable to move, than. The insect continues to bite, finding the outer layers of his skin tasty enough to merit further excavation. A second insect, crawling out of some unseen hole beyond his limited vision, joins the first, and is quickly followed by a third, a fourth, a dozen, too many to differentiate by feel alone and before he knows it an entire colony of carnivorous insects are biting into him, eating his flesh, burrowing under his clothes, his skin, crawling in his mouth and into his soft, wet insides, and he can't do anything to stop it.

It hurts, God it hurts, and he thinks wildly to himself that if he manages to live through this he will never ever strap a jar of bugs between another guest's teeth, ever again, because this is beyond torture, beyond ironic justice, beyond what words can describe: it just fucking hurts.

But then they reach his spinal cord and, like a city-wide power outage, his pain receptors begin to shut down, and then it's only the sounds of thousands of tiny mouths chewing. Until the insects turn their attention to his face, at least, being eaten alive isn't quite as bad as movies would lead him to believe. It's certainly slower, for one thing, and it lacks the nerve-wracking horror soundtrack, but perhaps that's for the better. The sounds he does hear are far from pleasant: squishing and crunching and gnawing and if he still had a stomach it'd probably be heaving by this point. He can see nothing but the dusty edge of darkness beneath his couch, but it's easy to imagine how gruesome he must look.

He's seen the results of this kind of thing with his own eyes, after all.

By the time they reach his head, they have already chewed through something vital in his chest and nowhere can he feel anything, any ache any pain any sadness any anger any loneliness and God is that an improvement. Consciousness fades to a dull spark somewhere in his increasingly exposed ribcage, perhaps somewhere just behind his collarbone, and he is hollowed out as rapidly as a properly upgraded power tool can scoop the mush out of a pumpkin. He is home to a colony of army ants, or a vast nest of ravenous, newborn spiders. That buzzing he hears could be the many vibrating wings of mating flies, or the first comb of a beehive being constructed among his bones. Certainly this is some species of insect that won't hesitate to swarm over a piece of meat—however stringy—before it has a chance to defend itself. Maybe it's even a school of land-bound piranha. He can imagine all sorts of culprits and has little trouble believing in all of them.

He wonders if honey from a human hive would be any good, but immediately discards the idea, revolted. He's practically thinking cannibalism here! Or, rather, self-cannibalism. Can a person self-cannibalize when they no longer have a digestive system? He'll have to try that sometime.

He wonders.

"Johnny?"

He blinks with magically undevoured eyelids, and is whole.

=

Sometimes, if he focuses hard enough, long enough, on these days when others flicker by in the mirrors, sometimes these flickers steady, become memorable faces, re-memorable people. And if memory serves, most of these people are dead.

The implications leave him with aching knuckles.

=

"I am not a monster."

"You just keep telling yourself that. Hey, maybe if you wish hard enough it might even come true one day!" Meat cackles and kicks his toothbrush into the toilet bowl.

"I wasn't always like this. I haven't always lived here. I haven't always been alone."

"How can you be so sure?”

Frustrated. Does he really have to state the obvious?

"No one is born knowing how to speak or read or write, or how to drive a car, or how to use money. Inherent knowledge is limited in humans. I may no longer have the memories of being taught, but the result is still the same. I know how to mix paints because I probably took classes in high school. I know how to use a camera, order dinner at a restaurant, do my own laundry, because someone else was there to teach me. Fuck, someone hated me enough to give me you."

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who gave me to you?" Meat's smile tries to appear kind, yet it is condescending, as if it is speaking to a child. "It's a simple enough question, dear boy."

"I—you said it was a girl—that we—" He swears. "You know I don't remember."

"Who gave you an understanding of the English language? Where is the license that proves you once passed a test at the DMV?"

"I—"

"Can you prove that you did not simply read the directions in some art books, or on the camera's packaging, or in a Laundromat? Perhaps, on the same strange whim that made you steal some Styrofoam Pillsbury Doughboy figurines, you came across my body yourself?"

"You said—"

"I thought you didn't trust me."

His knuckles burn white.

"Well, Johnny?"

"You know I can't prove any of that."

Meat's eyes glitter with delight. "Then, dear Johnny, how can you be so sure?"

=

At the edge of a stage bright with colored lights, he curls his hands around a microphone and smiles. The audience—

so many eyes watching him, and yet he couldn't be more relaxed

—has hushed; yet their screams still ring in his ears. 

He is not alone on this stage.

He doesn't dare turn to see who is playing softly behind him, afraid it'll be people the mirrors have shown him that are alive in some other Johnny's life but dead dead dead in his. His heart pounds, and for once the ache in his throat feels good. This is all so wonderfully terrifying, sickeningly familiar. Has he dreamed this before?

He comes to a stop inches from the audience's reaching hands. Good God, he has them right in the palm of his hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he breathes into the microphone, and every spark of life in this vast room is shining its light on him, and it is all so beautiful, so perfect, so alien. 

"What we have here is a moral conundrum."

=

"Bunny, I'm worried."

"I'm glad I'm not the only one. But really, there's so much to worry about. Please, elaborate for me."

"I haven't gone anywhere I might run the chance of killing someone in months. Just drive-thrus and that fully automated shopping center. Until recently, the only other people I've interacted with haven't bothered me or have been out of reach. It's only been these past couple weeks I've attempted anything more. Walking in parks, public transportation. You know."

"I know."

"What I can't figure out is how I ended up in that club at all."

The television is on, too low to be heard. In its pale blue glow, he carefully touches his chest, wincing when his fingers press against three tender circles: one on his sternum, another between his sixth and seventh ribs, and the last just beneath his ribcage. Tiny puckered scars ache in the center of each purple bruise.

"If I remember correctly, you recognized something who went inside and followed after."

"Why would—that doesn't sound like something I'd do."

"You stalked Devi for nearly a year."

He scowls. "Unnecessary, Bunny."

"Is it?"

He thumps his boots onto the coffee table and says nothing. Bunny presses on.

"It was a woman. Short hair, glasses, surprisingly compassionate to your… cause."

"Wait, do you mean that one woman with that shitty boyfriend I Tazered once? When I saw that movie—"

"Yes."

"Wow, really? I figured the Wall Monster got her after reality collapsed." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "What was her name? Did it start with a… a T?"

"Tess."

"Yeah!" He pauses. "She… recognized me first."

"Uh-huh."

"She practically ran into the building. They didn't even card her. She must have been a regular."

"Or she worked there."

"Or she worked there," he agrees. "That anyone could recognize me—" he trails off. A beat passes, and he continues on a different vein. "But what set me off? What caused me to break again, after I'd been doing so well?"

"That shouldn't be your chief concern, Johnny."

He looks at the disembodied rabbit head, little more than a skull now, and tiny and fragile-looking without it's maggot-riddled skin. "Oh?"

"You should be asking why you were sent back again."

=

Those other people in the mirror, those strangers, those friends, those dead bodies in motion, would sometimes pause beside his reflection. They smile, laugh; get mad and fight back and actually live; attack and be attacked; get scared and fight back and die. Some of it looks fun, some of it looks ridiculous. A lot of it scares him, more than he'd like to admit.

He wishes one of them would notice him.

His fingers touch glass.

[advernia]

of cats, jade, honey, nightingales, and spilled ink — — a compiled assortment of ikerev drabbles i’ve managed to spit out last week during break hours - they're spoiler free + scenes with vague contexts because that's all i can manage to write recently lmao _(:3 」∠)_

stray cat conjuration theory || loki & alice prompt: rain, rain, rain // shady stuff under an open umbrella

her umbrella is a shade of red.

it's shade because you see, it’s hard to be too sure considering the conditions: the umbrella’s cloth is soaked through and through due to its heroic sacrifice of shielding two people from a sudden torrential rain, the sky above them is covered by a thick spread of dark grays and obscure blacks so there’s little to no lighting that equals to harder visibility, then there’s the overgrown trees with their -

- ki, are you listening?

… hmm?

he turns his head - it’s a slow twist of his neck from up, down, then a tilt to his left with a little push forwards; perhaps painfully deliberate - and voila, there she is in all her glory; a face he was getting fond of filling his vision: wide eyes framed by dainty eyelashes, a small nose resembling what a fine-made porcelain doll might have, round lips without a single trace of rogue yet have the natural color of an enticing peach, and… oh -

alice, he says almost in sing-song, your cheeks are red. like apples! are you okay?

the umbrella skews a bit to the right as she shrinks back, grip on the handle tightening - a bit of his arm is left exposed and attacked mercilessly by the rain, dry turning damp in seconds: it’s cold and frankly annoying against his skin, but there’s a quick solution to that, and that is -

w…w-wha… hey, loki?

yes, alice?

uh… do you mind moving back? a little bit? please?

aww, but my shoulder’s gonna get wet!

oh… i wouldn’t want that either, but… don’t you think you’re standing a bit too -

- a bit too what?

a step closer has their shoulders brushing up against each other and his face just a handspan away from hers, and he takes this opportunity to peer much closer at her eyes, and he sees that her irises are a brilliant shade of -

i… i-if you move any closer, i’ll leave you here to get drenched!

a pause. brisk raindrops hitting the umbrella fill it in, dull sounds of tap tap tap tap tap, then -

he breaks into light laughter, a foot moving backwards and upper body retreating, a safe breathing space in between them now visible again.

sorry, alice! I was just kidding… did I take it too far?

really, loki… is this how you treat people who share their umbrellas with you?

nope! it’s not everyday that someone offers to share their umbrella with me… even if their umbrella’s too small to begin with.

… does that mean you want to get drenched after all?

no way!

please speak well of me || ray & alice prompt: in memor(iam)y // a fragment of me on your skin

"now that i think of it, why did you call this necklace a 'collar'?"

the king of spades raises his head briefly, eyes shifting from the wordy official document in his hands to the woman standing in his office. she's by the bookshelves, small hands, lithe fingers intent on relocating the books from their former places to wherever she saw fit. pull out, set aside, dust away, evaluate possible positions, then insert back to the shelf. rinse and repeat, like dance steps: one, two three, four, and five.

around her neck, chain hidden by the collar of her blouse and ribbon, a sparkle of green shone. it showed itself occasionally, peeking out of the ribbon when she would begin to chase the dust away from the books and shelves with a feather duster. it doesn't mix, he muses, that red ribbon against that bright green. to begin with, why was her dress blue and her ribbon red? do they mix? then again, did he really need to know?

she was wearing it, anyway - that's all.

"... i don't get you," he replies, tossing the now-signed document onto one of the many stacks piled on his desk. he gets another document from another stack and tries not to groan when he's greeted by multiple lines of ink, beautifully dull and almost consuming the paper itself. "does it matter?"

"of course it does," she replies, tone and pitch of voice a little bit higher than usual. he can't see her facial expression, but he envisions a frown - or maybe a scowl crossing her features. either way, she's not happy. "a collar is something you would use for pets. or domesticated animals."

"i know."

"so do you see me - or think of me as one?"

his lips quirk upwards, a snort escapes him. "is that your question for the day?"

she stops to glare at him, a thick tome in her hands. "that's just cheating."

"it isn't," his reply comes off as casual.

she doesn't buy it.

"i can see you grinning, ray blackwell."

he laughs when his full name rolls sharply off her tongue.

"are you actually angry, or are you trying to act like my mother?" 

♠ ♠ ♠

the king of spades learns that morning that alice the second can wield a five hundred twenty-three-page book with a thick hardbound leather cover like a training sword of the wooden variety, something that one could find in the black army's barracks.

sturdy and definitely not lethal.

he fails to account lethality for multiple hits straight to the head, though.

to his credit, she does apologize after she'd whacked him thrice. the book goes back to the shelf (without bloodstains), he mournfully clutches his head, she looks at him with worry.

"it's just that a necklace this nice," she says, fingers reaching up to her neck to clasp the jade in her palm, "doesn't deserve to be called a collar. it’s a gift from you, and i intend to treasure it when i get back to london.”

he’s not sure where’s the dull throbbing coming from now: it’s either from the back of his head, his ears, or his chest.

who cares, it hurts.

lather that honey on your tongue || blanc & alice prompt: ye olde pickup lines // romance in the eyes of the full moon

when he finds her, he sees her standing a few paces away from his house's backdoor, her hands set behind her back. her head is tilted upwards and her eyes reflect the moon over their heads: it's a large silver coin shining bright against a blackened sky scattered with stars.

he calls her name once - she turns her head, smiles and waves. moonlight casts a dainty glow on her facial features, making her skin seem softer and the blue of her eyes more vivid. he pauses for a moment before he walks to stand beside her.

"oliver told me you would be here," he says. "it seemed like you two had a pleasant chat before i arrived."

her brows furrow, lips purse themselves together. "i think oliver enjoyed it more than i did."

"oh? i would certainly enjoy myself as well, if i were in the company of such a beautiful lady such as yourself."

a pleasant smile lights up his features. one could not say the same for hers, however - her mouth has gone slightly slack, but she shook her head immediately and turns her head up back to the moon.

"i say, the moon is beautiful tonight," he says as he points to the sky with a gloved finger.

"but not as beautiful as i am, maybe?" she says, a lilt in her voice.

she laughs for a bit until she realizes that his eyes are on her: his eyes are wide open, his mouth slightly agape. heat flushes and colors her cheeks slightly.

"okay, i'm sorry," she splutters, angling her face away from him, "it's just that i mentioned to oliver that i get so flustered when you compliment me, and he said something along the lines of 'then why don't you beat the rabbit in his own game', and - "

" - and you decided to compliment yourself before i would?"

"yes, well - gosh, that sounded really awkward, didn't it? please forget i said anything."

he fixes her with a blank stare for a few seconds before chuckling.

"on the contrary, i can't deny your words."

her breath catches in her throat for a moment before she replies. "which ones?"

"you being far more beautiful than the moon will ever be, of course."

"now you're just exaggerating - i didn't even say half of that!"

"you didn't, which is why i took the honor of doing so."

he leans forward to take a lock of her hair in his fingers, pressing it to his lips with a smile.

sing sweet nightingale || sirius & alice prompt: i’m drowning in siren calls // my own two feet as a compass

that deep tone has engraved itself so distinctively well into her ears and mind that each time she would hear it, even if it was of the softest of murmurs, she would find herself looking for its source. it's almost unbelievable how it's become something like a reflex in such a short amount of time, making her feel quite sheepish. she was no dog, nor did she wish to give off the impression that she was a clingy lover constantly observing her beloved's actions... but time and time again, her body would fail her and she would always end up in another search for him.

whenever she would successfully find him, he'd pause whatever he was doing for a moment to greet her with a smile and a voice that soothes her sudden wanderlust. the sound is oh-so kind and noticeably happy so she smiles back, but somehow there's a lingering feeling of disappointment for herself.

so one day she tries to stop turning his way when she hears him from afar: whether she was at the kitchen and him just outside by the training grounds, she by the flowerbeds and he near the headquarters' entrance, or her in the saloon and him issuing orders by the hallways; she stifles the urge of her feet to drop everything and go to where he was. it's far from easy since she wants to hear more, but she tries her best and it actually works for a while - perhaps three days. it makes her feel a bit better about herself, but -

- it's all for naught when he literally corners her in her own room, back and wrists pinned against the wall. she breathes an inhale of surprise at the sudden action, turning sharp when he lowers his face so it's just inches away from her own. his breathing sounded strained, how strange, like he was in pain - oh dear, did something happen? could she be of help?

worry begins to flood her thoughts, but it's washed out without a care just as quick when his breath tickles her ear and he speaks to her with an urgency, demanding and agitated and frustrated but still so beautiful to hear -

why have you been avoiding me?

oh no, she muses but doesn't say - her body had involuntarily trembled out of sheer delight at the sound of his voice so close, heart singing loud and knees growing weak.

words don't dare crawl out of her parched throat.

trails of sea-foam ink || dean & alice prompt: that i hold dear // the chase for a permanent you

today before he leaves his home he walks over to that one drawer and collects every single letter she sent, keeps all those tiny envelopes complete with their barely torn seals inside a folder that fits snugly into his bag, then goes on his merry way.

when they meet for tea, he shoves the folder - and all those one hundred fifty-seven letters of four seasons - into her hands.

“you should do something about your penmanship,” he says like the professor he really was, and that just makes her frown. what - was her alphabet too round, the edges too curved? were the words, sentences, and paragraph alignments all wrong on each and every line, like how music notes would dance on staves?  

“i’m sorry,” she says, but she’s not even sure what she’s apologizing for. maybe it was better to ask. “... is my writing too small for you to read?”

“i would’ve told you immediately if that were the case, rather than subjecting myself to eye strain.”

“is it too large?”

he holds himself from clicking his tongue. “it’s not an issue about size.”

“oh. then is it about how i write everything in a slanting manner?”

“no - you aren’t the first and perhaps the last person i would see whose penmanship presents itself in such a script-like fashion and objectively speaking, you are one of the agreeable examples of those writing in such a style.”

“uh-huh,” her head tilts to the side, she frowns. “then can i ask you what... well, you don’t like about my handwriting?”

he raises the teacup up to his lips. what i don’t like, he muses, is how light you write. what i don’t like is how the ink you used to write all those letters is dark enough to leave its mark on the paper but light enough for me to think that its fading, like touches of moonlight on a cloudy night. it reminds me of you and how you came to be in this world in the first place, and how easy it is for you to go back if you firmly decided on it. but what i dislike the most is the fact that i still have lingering thoughts of the possibility of you leaving when every single letter you have sent me has told me otherwise, all because your penmanship is as light and dainty as yourself.

“dean?” she calls out, voice something small.

unease unable to quell itself, he allows an amount of pure black tea to hold his tongue.

[alexandrasavior]

Alexandra Savior AMA !!

COMING IN HOT BITCHES!!!!

Hi Alex! How much of the instrumentation was figured out before heading into the studio? Did you just bring in bare minimum demos and then fleshed them out in the studio? Or did you have most of it prepared and just recorded it? I really loved the album by the way!

Thank you! It was different for each track. A lot of the songs I had full fleshed demos that my band and I had recorded in Portland, and Sam Cohen and I worked around those. Some of the tracks like "But You" I had some Garage band demos I made on my own that we worked around, and some of the tracks like "Soft Currents" were just raw iPhone recordings of me playing and singing, and Sam and I worked out together in the studio.

Your music has some really interesting chord progressions and melodic phrases. To what extent do you consciously apply music theory to your songwriting, and how much just comes naturally from ear and instinct?

To no extent :/ I am not super skilled in music theory, I just play around until it seems like it makes sense to me

You described your desire for Belladonna of Sadness to sound "murderous", and I thought that darkness and dangerous feeling really shone through. What adjectives would you powerfully ascribe to your sophomore album? What tonal differences were important to you while recording?

I like this question! hmmmmmm. “honest"

I'm pretty new to your music, but, everyday I can't stop myself from liking it more. My two current favorite songs are “The Phantom” and “Bad Disease”. I've seen that many people prefer other songs from the album, so that made me think. What is your personal favorite song from your new album? Thanks!

“But You”!

Hypothetical: You’re making a new album and need to assemble your dream band. Anyone dead/alive. Who are you choosing?

My best friend Emma, my boyfriend, Mel, and like my therapist

Is there anything that you do in terms of practice when it comes to vocals/guitar/songwriting to improve yourself? Interested to hear

Try to play everyday

I'd love to know if you've got any cool, hidden talents that you haven't shown in public. Also I badly want to know who's done the cover for both “Saving Grace” and “Crying All the Time”.

ME! I painted them

What are your tips for marketing your music and getting more people to stream/buy your music?

I am lucky because I have a team that guides me through social posts, and a publicist. But don't post pics of your butt

Your music and music videos have so many cinematic elements to them. Does an affinity for film influence your music? If so, do you have some favorite films you can mention?

yes! Bonnie and Clyde, Rosemary's Baby, Don't Look Now, Fargo, Daisies

I've seen a few people comparing your latest work with Lana del Rey's. Do you listen to her? Was she really an inspiration for the record?

I like Lana she's talented, I understand the comparison in some ways , people tend to compare things naturally. But, no she wasn't my personal inspiration in any conscious way

Did you make a conscious effort to distance yourself from the sound of Belladonna of Sadness with this new album?

No, I have gotten mixed feedback some people say its the exact same sound, some say it is different, I just created what came naturally to me and used sounds that I am personally drawn to.

If you were to try to make someone a fan of your music, but could only show them three of your songs, what songs would you show them?

oooooh! hmmmmm. “But You”, “Audeline”, “Crying All The Time”.

Excuse me Ms. Savior - I fell in love with your duet "We're Just Making It Worse" many moons ago. What can you tell us about that song?

Thanks! Well my homie Cameron Avery wrote that tune, he just asked me to sing on it and I was glad to!

What do you think was the biggest difference between writing The Archer and Belladonna of Sadness?

i was alone

What advice would you give to up and coming musicians in the LA scene? Any Dos or Don’ts? Thank you :)

Don’t be gross and creepy! Don't worry about that hipsta shit. Do be nice and make your own shit!

What is the most unusual thing that you do to help you write or to help you get some inspiration?

Stalk all my exes’ new gfs on insta and then eat an entire chocolate cake

Will we ever get to hear your version of “Miracle Aligner”?

probs not

When does the vinyl for The Archer ship? I am hoping to get one of you drawings with mine!

First batch tomorrow 1/17/2020. Second batch Tuesday 1/21/2020. Thank You!

I saw a clip from a concert you gave recently. It was you with a couple of bandmates singing something acapella. What's that song? Is it yours? It was gooorgeous. Any chance you're coming to Barcelona?

"The Oak and The Ash", an old celtic song. I will be playing Sala Nau May 13th!!!!!!!!

Can you talk about the differences in recording your first album while signed to a major label and this album while signed to a indie label? I know you’ve spoken about why you left Columbia, but I was wondering how your personal process differed this time around, especially with different resources and personnel?

Yeah it was a lot less pressure making this record, I had more say and more freedom of expression.

You said in an interview that you wrote the songs for The Archer on piano or guitar and brought them to the studio recorded on your phone. Would you ever consider releasing these as bonus tracks? 

I might ya! They’re probably a lot less interesting than you think

Do you have any tips on how to overcome writers block/find new ways to approach writing ? I've been struggling a bit lately... Have you been reading lately? If so, what books would you recommend ? :)

Just be kind to yourself, do what is natural, don't beat yourself up. I just re-read "My Year of Rest and Relaxation" by Otessa Moshfegh, now I am ready " Conversations With Friends" by Sally Rooney. I would recommend any Joan Didion, also I enjoy Salingers "Nine Stories"

This album feels a lot more personal than the first one. How would you say it compares in relation to how you expressed yourself as an artist?

I was very insecure while writing my first record, and I was co-writing so I used a lot of techniques to shelter my own opinions and feelings, in The Archer it was just me, so it was more of a journal entry than a big fancy record

Which artists did you grow up admiring, and inspired your style? Also, do you have any poetry recommendations, seeing how all your lyrics are poems in their own right?

hmmmm. ok Hilary Duff, Elvis, The White Stripes, Billie Holiday. Poetry: I don’t read much poetry but I like Rimbaud and Sylvia Plath

How did you feel when you found out “Risk” played on True Detective?

I cried

On Belladonna, what inspired the lyrics and melody for “Till You're Mine”? That song is always on repeat in my household.

Thanks! I would say my own insecurities and jealousy towards a specific woman in my life

Do you write the melodies as well as the lyrics or is it a collaborative effort?

For this record I wrote the melodies, lyrics, and chords for every song aside from "The Phantom" which was a collaboration with Sam Cohen.

What inspired you to make this new album?

I just make songs, and each song was inspired by something different, but mostly I needed to show people I WRITE MY SONGS

Do you have plans to sell more merch? I would really love to get my hands on signed stuff or one of your drawings/crafts.

yes workin' on merch now! <3

As a budding songwriter and musician myself is there any advice or wisdom you could pass on when it comes to making a career out of it?

I think writing as much as you can and trying to write honestly is important. I was lucky in a strange string of events that started my career, and every dream is different, but I suppose just keep writing and releasing your songs wherever you can

Often when I listen to music I tend to relate the song to places I've been to or places I'm at while listening. Is it the same for you when you write your songs? Do you think about a specific place for each song?

Yeah totally!

Would you ever be interested in collaborating with another artist on their record?

Yeah! Depends on who, I have always wanted to sing on a rap song.

Collab with Weyes Blood coming anytime soon?

i wish brah

Any tips on staying sane with dating apps?

don’t do dating apps

Romance is a topic which you touch upon in both of your albums. Do you have any words or phrases that have helped you through a difficult time, both in dealing with or exploring relationships past or present, if so what are they? What is your favorite set of lyrics ever, i.e. phrases etc.

"fuck hem he's a deck", "Kathy's Song" Simon and Garfunkel, "I Remember" Molly Drake

Do you use more real life experience or do you use more imagination/creativity when writing lyrics?

Depends how boring my personal life is at the time haha

What's your favorite Beatle, favorite Beatle album and favorite Beatle song?

Georgie boy <333333333

Are there any plans to record/release that “political song” with the violin that you played at Homiefest last year? For a third album maybe? Thanks, loved you since 2015 when I first heard that “Risk” demo for True Detective. The Archer is a masterpiece no bullshit.

maybe! lol

Where is the love for Chicago? How come we haven't had any shows yet?

Give me a break homie I don't plan this stuff! Would love to come to Chicago! It all depends on timing and $$$$

What was the most challenging song to write on this record?

maybe bad disease

Will there be more music videos?

I dont think so :/

I noticed for both of your releases, theres been a decent amount of time.. between when they were recorded and released. Have you found this frustrating more than anything or is it nice to have time to sit with the album?

Well, sometimes it is hard to move on and write more, with so much time between the final touches of the record and the actual release.... But, it ebs and flows and its out now so its no difference to me now

Who are some artists/bands that you personally enjoy listening to?

Jessica Pratt, The Jhamels, Molly Drake

You also seem like a prolific painter, who would you point to as inspiration/muse? My best guess would be Picasso.

Alice Neel 100%

When you feel like you’re stuck when you’re writing a song, what do you do to get around it?

I stop writing for a while, don't force it. Everyone's process is different so I try not to beat myself up too much about it

When Kevin Parker hit reddit someone asked him about if he can upload a new song and he did so... Can we hear a new song ?

If Kevin Parker jumped off a bridge WOULD YOU ?!

Who's your dream musical collab? If you were to make a soundtrack what director would you work with?

dream collab: Snoop Dogg, director: Quentin

Can you say a little bit about the creation of the album art? It's understated but there is definitely a mood there!

my dear friend Dana Trippe took the photos, and my dear friend Aaron Mitchell did the fonts

Noticed your music has a very “old horror movie/spaghetti western” vibe to them. Any films/soundtracks that inform your sound you’d recommend?

ooooh Anything Coen Brothers or Wes Anderson

How much was growing up in Portland an influence on your music?

I would say the rain had a lot to do with my melancholy, but also the music scene in Portland has always been very DIY and rock-based so “ guess that influenced me in some way.

What’s your favorite song of your’s lyrically and your favorite song to perform?

fave lyrically: Bad Disease, fave to perform: But You or Mystery Girl

The whole record was amazing but “Soft Currents” keyboards are really something else, are you planning to write more on the piano?

thank you! yes been writing a lot on the ole ivories

I love how a lot of your songs sound very cinematic - would you like to get into movie music in some capacity? Either scoring or soundtrack?

Awh hell yeuh

Is there a particular song that you're most proud of?

But YOu!

What would you say is your favorite guitar that you own and what is your dream guitar to own?

I am not much of a gear-head though I would love and old nylon string

Do you think that “Risk” will ever be made available on Spotify and Apple Music?

Unfortunately, because it was released on T-Bone Brunette's label, there was a legal situation that made me unable to release it separately. :/

Will you be making more of those amazingly weird embroidered underwear for your new tour? Obvs need some Savior swag on this tush.

I wish! I don’t have a sewing machine anymore but I will be selling my lil boxes online soon

Any chance for a show in Toronto? I'm a big fan, and I introduced my mom to your music and she absolutely loves you (her words) so I'd love to take her to one of your shows

hahah awh <3 None planned at the moment :(

What song on The Archer was a struggle to finish? Or were they all easy?

easy peasy lemon squeezy

Don't want to take away from your latest release (because it is an amazing album) but was there a reason you decided to not work with Alex Turner or James Ford for any of the new songs, writing or producing?

-__-

Since both your albums have been about relationships mostly, would you ever consider making a political song/album? What is your stance on that old debate?

I write what comes naturally to me

What should I name my snail stuffed animal?

gail

Why didn’t you get a proper promotional run from Columbia for Belladonna? It’s an amazing album but I just found out about you through The Archer (which is equally amazing).

I can't really say, but I don’t think I was ever gonna make the kind of $$$ Columbia wanted

Would you like to tour South America at some point in your career?

awh hell yeuh!

Is there any particular era/motive which inspires your music visuals (album covers, music videos)? All the best from Split, Croatia!

70s!

Based on your Spotify stats, what are the countries that listen to you the most?

IDK! France seems to be very supportive

Any artist that you like that you could recommend?

Jessica Pratt, Sudan Archives, Vagabon

What's your favorite thing to draw/paint?

women

Who is your favorite artist / what is your favorite album at the moment, and how would you say this impacted on how The Archer sounds? Also please come to the North of England 😂

I AM!!! CHECK MY TOUR SCHEDULE AND COME BB!! favorite album rn "The Colour Green" by Sibylle Baier

What’s playing in your head now?

the click clacking of a mac keyboard

How do you like your coffee?

a lil bit of almond milk

Will The Archer be getting a cd release?

no :(

That's all folks! Thank for all of the questions, and most of all thank you so much for listening to my songs, it is a dream come true <3 Come see me play at my upcoming shows ! Can't wait to see you there <33333 amour my homies

[keremulusoy]

With her soft voice and a contemporary interpretation, Asena Akan is considered one of the important representators of jazz music. Since her early childhood, Asena Akan has always been a music enthusiast as she started her musical education at the age of 5 in violin section of Istanbul Municipal Conservatoire. She was also trained part-time in Opera Section of State Conservatoire of Istanbul University.  Apart from her passion for music, Akan was also interested in human behaviour so she did her undergraduate and graduate studies in this area in Psychological Counselling Department at Istanbul University. Asena Akan who has been integrating the healing/transforming power of music with her life  has been continuing her musical journey with the music band “İstanbul’dan (from Istanbul)” by doing jazz vocals, composing music and executing stage performances after releasing two albums named “İstanbul’un İzleri” (Traces of Istanbul) and “Golden Heart”

Can you briefly introduce yourself to our readers? Who is Asena Akan? I have been describing myself as a person who is trying to make a sound since I was five. And I still miss who I was at that age and I feel the need of those natural sounds in my music workshops. My passion for music started when I started to repeat all the sounds at the age of five and my family was confused to whether to send me to a doctor or to a conservatory. I got training at the Violin Department of Istanbul Municipality Conservatory. The instructors there deemed the violin was fit for me but I could not get used to the violin no matter what I did. For five years, I have tried to get into the violin but it never happened. At heart, I liked the piano. I left the conservatory after having difficulties but I have not given up on music. Since I was a child, I have been on the watch for the bass and the drums when listening to music. I even love instrumental music. I bought a bass guitar fifteen years ago. Five years ago, I accelerated my communication with my instrument by saying, ‘I will play it now”. In short, I’m an Istanbul lover who was born and raised in Istanbul and who cannot part with music. Music, Istanbul and I complete each other.

BEING A SOUND

You decided to focus on your passion for music rather than your academic career. Yet, you organized a workshop named “Being a sound” which combines both of your experiences. Yes, all my works support each other. Because going to the different corners of Istanbul or visiting different places in Turkey are things that foster each other. Touching people, learning from their lives, exchanging ideas and emotions are very inspiring. Doing this through music is very nice, on the other hand, like I mentioned before, I organize workshops making use of what I have learned during my studies in psychological counselling. In the past, I organized some seminars and did one-on-one psychological counselling. I said to myself “Why am I not doing all these through music?” and now I organize music workshops, which are called “Being a Sound” where we focus on expressing ourselves, transforming emotions and on concepts such as creativity and inspiration with different groups. The development of the philosophy of “Being a Sound” is a whole another story. I think everyone is born into the world as a different instrument, and how you use these potentials makes you unique. That is why I put great importance on communication. The same thing goes for performing at a concert or a workshop. I have noticed this in every aspect of life. Are you angry? How does your mood reflect on your spouse, child, significant other, friends or other people? Making these contacts between the music and those processes in life strengthens the works. Since every individual is a different instrument, there are different workshops, no workshop is alike.

So, what kind of impact did Istanbul which you can’t stop talking about have in your music life? All my works are influenced by Istanbul. There are parts of the city I can identify myself with. I believe everyone is born with a golden heart. There may be some corruptions afterwards due to the experiences which I call “being out of tune”. We resist, change, learn and go on in one way or the other. We witness that Istanbul is also beaten and broken. Then suddenly you see Galata Tower from a corner, you hear the sound of the sea. This gives me joy in life. So actually, there is such a thing as “my Istanbul” because I am no stranger to the other side of Istanbul. I am a person who also has a history of being a psychological counsellor apart from being a musician. I majored in psychological counselling at the university and being an academician was my first profession. That is why my social works side is strong. So, Istanbul is not just limited to where I live. I visit many other places. With music and workshops I do, I can reach other places and people not only in Istanbul but throughout Turkey.

What can be done for the children to love and know Istanbul that we can barely protect? Have you thought about it? Children are very instructive. For those who want to learn, anything can be some kind of an Instruction tool. I have a daughter too, her name is Sofya. I have learned so much from Sofya. We have discovered many things together. We walked together to the places I enjoy in Istanbul and went exploring together. First, she adapted to me, my life, my walking. Then, she started picking the places we would go and I followed. At some point, we even thought: “Why are we not going to a mall?” because I wanted to introduce my daughter to the real Istanbul. Even if I had been born in a different city, I could have fallen in love with that city. The city phenomenon is a very different concept. There is an energy in which people come together and do things or miss each other in a cosmopolitan city like Istanbul. I am very much in love with Istanbul but it is not that hard for me to adapt myself to wherever I go. It is about exploration and the sense of wonder. We must teach our children the pleasure of discovering hidden values and preserving them, but of course, they should want it too.

“JAZZ IS A DEMOCRATIC MUSIC”

Back to your music career, what would you like to say about jazz? What impresses me the most about jazz is that it is a democratic music. It involves different sounds and colours. That every instrument expresses itself through role changes such as being a leader or being an accompanist accordingly. These impress me. I find it very similar to my philosophy in life. Since my childhood, I have been very sensitive about discrimination. Jazz is helping me find my way during this soul searching. There are lives I try to touch and I have shown this to them as a role model. Jazz is an incredible instructor for me. Singing is inspiring and keeps one young and dynamic. Being involved with music, in general, makes me experience those feelings. With music, we are at places both of learning and teaching. I am very happy that music is accompanying my life and I think it should accompany everyone in their lives in some way. My album Istanbul’un İzleri (Traces of Istanbul) is the apple of my eye. It was born after three years of work. Very valuable musicians contributed to this album. Golden Heart came together after English compositions were made. Afterwards, an EP called “Parçalar” where I interpreted some of the songs in this album in Turkish and a single called “Suya Yazdım” which I composed with mixed emotions were published. Nowadays we have a band called “Istanbul’dan” to which I enjoy belonging.

Asena Akan

Asena Akan

Asena Akan

Asena Akan

İstanbul’dan müzik grubu

Grupta piyanoyu Ayca Daştan, davul ve perküsif enstrümanlarını Nihal Saruhanlı çalıyor. Vokalde ve basta ise Asena Akan hünerlerini sergiliyor.

How was the band “İstanbul’dan” born? The mastermind behind the “İstanbul’dan” in which we interpreted the folk songs of Anatolian culture in our language to understand and touch the lands we live on  is Ayca Daştan. We had a musical collaboration with Ayca for many years. When she explained this beautiful project three or four years ago to me, I got involved. Folk song arrangements in the project are done by her. In the band, Ayca Daştan plays the piano and the lovely Nihal Saruhanlı who joined the band later plays the drums and the percussions. I do the vocals and play the bass. As in all other fields, it is necessary to spend a lot of time and effort to produce something good in music. We have worked on “Istanbul’dan” very seriously and in a very disciplined way. At first, we did not plan it to be a “women’s project” but it happened that way.

 It’s a project where I enjoy being a musician. The sincerity of “Istanbul’dan” is what impresses me the most. We did not start off with the aim “We grew up here, we learned about Western music, let’s create something by mixing these two up.” It would not have affected me so much if we had. An organic process developed where emotions were heavily involved. At first, the stories of the folk songs affected us, then they got integrated with our own stories. We re-internalize folk songs with Ayça’s arrangements then we re-interpret them on the stage improvising, depending on our mood. That is what deems this project original for me. The album has been released recently. It is also on digital platforms. Our purpose is to bring music, its stories and the people of this period together and to present it with our energy and emotions. I have never felt the need to constantly “shine through” in music. Rather, I need to be a part of the democratic music where instruments rise and fall in harmony, where sometimes some instruments express themselves by becoming more prominent, where everyone’s voice and tone colour are respected and where everyone creates a dialog. There is a brave, curious and noteworthy audience in our country who wants to hear new things and is open to different voices. My first album “İstanbul’un İzleri” brought me together with these beautiful hearts although I didn’t do any promotional work.

We talked about the healing power of music, but music has also a uniting power. What would you like to say about the effect of music in this sense considering that people in the world are separated and cannot express their feelings clearly and uncensored? The concept of “IKIGAI”, which is the subject of a book I have read recently and is calledthe secret of Japanese long and happy life, questions “What is the purpose of your life that makes you get out of bed in the morning?” What motivates me to wake up is to make as many and different people, including me, benefit from the uniting and healing power of music. That is why I organize the workshops named “Being a Voice” I am also a part of the “We Care Association”, which develops products and services for children to achieve their fundamental rights. We developed a “Mother-Child Development Guidance Program” for mothers with children in penal institutions. Besides, we organize trainer training for employees. And we all benefit from the healing power of music together. It is important for somebody or some people that you make him/them understood and that you connect with him/them. Even the smallest things you do mean something for them and benefit them. But of all methods, I think music is the fastest, most direct and most effective. In fact, it provides a positive environment that also removes people with its non-judgmental and embracing nature. Music is a tool that has been used as a therapy method for the treatment of diseases for centuries with scientific and evidence-based principles. This is not something newly discovered, we just have to open ourselves up to it. As Sufi Inayat Khan expressed in a statement I like; “Music is the most effective means and the shortest way to integrate man with himself, then with other people, and then with the universe.”

NOTES

About Asena Akan Born in Istanbul, Asena Akan started her musical education at the age of five with classical violin at Istanbul Municipal Conservatory, then received part time training in the Opera Department at the Istanbul State Conservatory and graduated in 1998. Akan also plays bass guitar and continues her musical journey by doing jazz vocals, making musical compositions and stage performances.

Sunset Concerts The concert took place at sunset in the Istanbul Bookstore at Kadıköy Pier. I sang songs from my album İstanbu’un İzleri. It was a very enjoyable performance with the interactive participation of the audience. I was more than happy to have a public concert.

Albums: ‘İstanbul’un İzleri’ (2013) written and composed by her, released by Z/Kalan; ‘Golden Heart’(2016); ‘Parçalar’ (EP-2017); ‘Suya Yazdım’ (Single-2019)

Songs Performed By Them: Kerpiç Kerpiç Üstüne, Yağmur Yağar Taş Üstüne, Gelevera Deresi, Yemen Türküsü

İstanbul’dan Asena Akan: Vocal&bass Ayca Daştan: Piano Nihal Saruhanlı: Drum&percussions

It consists of three female musicians from Istanbul who interpret folk songs of Anatolian culture in their language to understand and touch the lands they live on. Improvisations, another important element that the band is nurtured of, create the artists’own stories. The concert, which is shaped by improvisations that transfer the loop between past, present, and future and is changing every time, turns into a new experience for those who love and know folk songs as well as first-time listeners.

The Progressive and Innovative Nature Of Jazz I do not believe in the viewpoint that jazz belongsto a certain culture and must be performed within a certain framework. On the contrary, I think that its nature operates in the cycle and balance of breaking the existing rules, building new ones, and then breaking them. More generally, I associate the progressive and innovative nature of jazz with the values of being a self-improving person. That is why I am confident that in Anatolia, which has been home to so many innovative and valuable musicians, there is an audience who will listen to new kinds of music and open their hearts to it.

By: Hatice Çetinlerden & Dilara Gülşah Azaplar Photos: Yağızkan Karahan *This article was  published in the  November-December issue of Marmara Life. 

SOUND OF ISTANBUL With her soft voice and a contemporary interpretation, Asena Akan is considered one of the important representators of jazz music.

[bbclesmis]

NY Times: A New Version of ‘Les Misérables’ Has Less Singing, More Misery

Vilvoorde, Belgium — Lily Collins, dressed in a mud-colored linen shift, tried to hide the small piece of jewelry she had crafted, as a hatchet-faced factory supervisor approached.

The camera moved in for a close-up of her pale, anxious face. “Sorry, Lily, just one more time,” said Tom Shankland, the director of the new adaptation of “Les Misérables,” a coproduction with BBC and PBS’s Masterpiece. “Listen, my deathbed scene was on Day 2,” said Ms. Collins, who was playing the ill-fated Fantine. “It’s all uphill at this point.”

There is not much that’s looking up for any character in Victor Hugo’s epic 1862 novel “Les Misérables,” which has provided the subject matter for dozens of theater, television and film adaptations, most famously the blockbuster musical that zillions of fans affectionately call “Les Miz.”

But this six-part television adaptation, which first aired in Britain from December to February and arrives on Masterpiece on Sunday, might come as a surprise to those who only know the musical. This version hews much more closely to Hugo’s book, a five-volume, 365-chapter novel that over the course of its complex plot explores history, law, politics, religion and ideas about justice, guilt and redemption. Set in a grimly realist France, its abundant starving poor and oppressed are entirely disconnected from the wealthy classes. (The aptly dreary set here, in a dilapidated, gloomy former prison, might as well have sported a sign saying “Likely to Perish Within.”)

Unsurprisingly, the musical, which got a lavish Hollywood adaptation in 2012, focuses mainly on the central characters and plot lines. “I thought the musical a very feeble representation of the book,” said Andrew Davies (“Bridget Jones’s Diary,” “War and Peace”), who wrote the screenplay for the new series. “It very much reinforced my idea that we needed a proper, old-fashioned long-form television adaptation.”

The story (skip ahead if you are one of the millions who have seen a previous incarnation) begins with Jean Valjean (played here by Dominic West), a peasant who has almost finished his sentence of 19 years hard labor for stealing a loaf of bread for his starving relatives. Brutalized by his jail time, he is transformed through an act of kindness, and becomes a wealthy and respected citizen, with a new identity. When he discovers that one of his former factory workers, Fantine, has become destitute after being fired, he adopts her daughter, Cosette, who is living with the evil Thenardiers (Olivia Colman and Adeel Akhtar in the series).

Editors’ Picks

Pursued over the years by his former jailer Javert (David Oyelowo), a police officer obsessed with bringing the former criminal to justice, Valjean raises Cosette (Ellie Bamber) who eventually falls in love with Marius (Josh O’Connor), a student taking part in the revolution against the monarchy in the June Rebellion of 1832.

Let’s just say that very few characters get a happy ending.

“I think we managed to include everything that was really important,” Davies said, adding that he had streamlined some of the narrative’s twists and turns, notably Valjean’s repeated returns to and escapes from prison, and Javert’s uncanny reappearances wherever Valjean is to be found. “I think this has made it feel less improbable and more believable in modern terms,” he said.

In a series of conversations, Davies, Shankland and a few of the principle actors talked about three important aspects of the mini-series that set it apart from the musical. Here are edited excerpts.

Valjean vs. Javert

DOMINIC WEST The first question is obviously, what is Javert’s problem? Why is he so obsessed with Valjean? You do wonder what’s going on there, and we sort of hinted at it in one glance where I am naked in front of him when [Valjean] is released from the prison hulks. It always helps to bring things down to love and sex, and I think there is a homoerotic thing going on, perhaps the love of the jailer for his prisoner. It’s a modern, reductionist view to bring it down to that, and we didn’t emphasize it. But it’s there.

That they are alter egos, in a way, was the biggest clue to why Valjean felt so guilty, so unworthy. I realized that anyone who is brutalized and treated like an animal eventually becomes that. Valjean’s belief that he doesn’t deserve anyone’s love in the real world is central to his sense of self, and that is an important political point. Javert believes criminals are born that way, and Valjean is evidence that criminals are products of their environments.

DAVID OYELOWO My first interaction with “Les Mis” was with the musical, and when I read Andrew Davies’s script, it seemed very apparent that I could bring real layering and complexity to this character, who in the musical is a much more one-dimensional villain. I suddenly understood this man, born to criminal parents in a prison and filled with loathing for that world. It became apparent to me that he had transposed a side of himself onto Jean Valjean, and needed to destroy that part of himself he saw there. You need six hours of television to explore that complex idea!

Oppression and Politics

TOM SHANKLAND I am one of the few people in the universe who wasn’t really aware of the musical and the story, beyond the posters. When I read the script and novel, I really got a sense that this was a story of revolution, of social injustice, about people who felt disenfranchised. I wanted to find a way to interpret the story in a way that felt respectful to Hugo, but also politically relevant. It has wonderfully big moral questions: What does it mean to be good in a cruel world? What is meaningful action?

Drawings from the period — etchings of that revolution and others, images of urban warfare — were important in creating visual imagery, but I also drew from my memory of the 2011 London riots, and from the gilet jaunes in Paris. I didn’t want it to be just big images of the barricades, and I didn’t want it to be stiff and costume drama-y. There is nothing romantic or picturesque about those experiences; they are frightening and chaotic.

OYELOWO Hugo shows the fragility of the class system so well. Fantine starts off just above the underclass and falls catastrophically. Javert is the reverse, rising to prison officer and policeman, forcing his way up through the social hierarchy, but always feeling precarious. This idea of the fragility of many people’s social and economic positions feels very relevant today. In our society, the gaps between the haves and the have-nots is widening and people’s lives can be stripped away, just as they are in this story.

The Dark Side

LILY COLLINS There are parts of each character’s story line in “Les Misérables” that doesn’t get into film versions or the musical, because there just isn’t time. A song lyric can try to tell the story in one line, but here we show Fantine’s early life, how she falls in love, is deceived and has a baby. That makes her fate all the harder because we have discovered that side of her life, her trusting and joyous personality.

We shot my death scene first. I did a lot of research about what France would have been like for women at that time. What were the diseases, the symptoms of the disease she might have died from, what that would look like for filming. It was pretty grim, especially the scene when her teeth are pulled out because she is selling them for money for her child. It really made me push myself and find out what I could withstand physically and emotionally.

WEST I hadn’t seen Valjean played as initially completely unredeemable in other versions of the novel. I wanted to really show that brutal, callous side that Hugo depicts, and we wanted to make his leap from that to romantic hero as big as possible. That really gets your pulse going as an actor. In a way, I went back to my childhood. I wasn’t a street urchin, but I was a fairly coarse Yorkshire kid, and I tapped into that. In the same way, the Thenardiers are usually treated in a more comic vein, but they are really evil. It’s interesting and remarkable that the novel hasn’t been treated in this kind of depth for a very long time.

DAVIES The series ends with an image of two little boys, who we have seen begging earlier, and who Gavroche, a street urchin, takes under his wing. Gavroche is killed, and the little boys are still begging at the end, as a reminder to the audience that although the story ends happily for some, the suffering and brutality goes on.

x

[littlesilverplatinum]

A Herd Better Left Unknown – Another, Where You Belong – Two

---

Toes clad in nylons peak out over the edge of the felt seat. Her fingers, absentmindedly pulling at the hem that never seemed to sit comfortably around the foot. To tug it above, below or across the curve of her toes appeared to be a dreadful decision to make most of the time. Either resulted in mild discomfort impossible to force out of your mind.

But perhaps she needed a bit of a distraction.

The oval glass that lined the closed, narrow space that built the plane was Hikari’s only current window to the outside world. A world, that held nothing but oceans for as far as the eyes could see. There was a calm in that, as well as worry. One taken care of, by mindlessly finding herself tasks.

To get comfortable, in a childish such manner. --To sit as she did at her age was, perhaps, an oddity.

---

[. . . On a white country road

The dusty breeze stands still.

I drop down to the floor with a bump,

as some kids play marbles.

Shine-shine, glitter-glitter . . .]

In low tunes on the radio, summer songs come to play on repeat through the late spring. Hums of childish notes ring clear under the baritone voice of the male soloist. In the distance, chatter that clearly would turn into shouting – had her mother been the kind to do so, spilled past the kitchen archway.

The call Johanna had received after Hikari’s ‘outburst’ at her grandmother’s home had been as expected as it had been unexpected. Three days between what had been a nightmare – of foul words spoken as fact on a balcony that held no warmth, it was almost surprising that Sofia had waited as long as she had to let her opinion be known.

--The cigarette stench still clung to her nose, impossible to get rid of no matter how hard she tried.

[. . . Well, it’s the summer

The deep green of the shrine grove

A solemn silence has fallen.

An old tearoom

Someone swings from the store front . . .]

Johanna had come to her, then. Palms gently gripped at her lap as she took a seat near the daughter she no longer felt was her own. No longer hers to care for, nor hers to give advice to. --Hikari would not meet her discernments, but that was not something new.

“Grandma asked me to say ‘hello’,” she would try, voice soft and hesitant. A smile that meant little testing its limits.

Hikari almost laughed. “… She did not.”

Johanna’s hand would come to rest against her thigh, then. Something Hikari did not react to, though she perhaps would’ve under any other circumstances.

“… She doesn’t mean to be upset with you, Hikari. Her choice in words doesn’t mean anything, either.”

---

The pads of her fingertips felt cold against the glass shielding her from the vast skies.

Perhaps Sofia truly hadn’t meant anything by her choice in words. Perhaps she simply carried a grudge along with information she thought herself to have gained by the small amount of interaction she and her daughter had kept throughout the years. --Relied on rumors, on her own sick ideas, rather than facts.

‘You’re a product of a child molester and a daughter that picked the worst life for herself.’

Nausea sat prominent in the pit of her stomach. Her knees, pressing tighter against her chest as her arms finds their way around them.

‘He did like them young, after all.’

Perhaps Sofia was nothing but delusional and deranged. An aged old lady who didn’t even know what she was spewing in moments of stress – nor in unfamiliar situations that her aid was not present to assist her through. Veronika had been inside during this time, after all.

Hikari’s fingers finds the length of her hair and pulls.

‘He is a child molester, sick – what’s to say he didn’t let his hands wander on his own ch-?’

Without much care, as the disgust she had felt in the days long past boiled within her throat, blunt nails dug at her scalp in an attempt to find reason. To find leverage – an advantage in a situation that was difficult to comprehend and work through. --How could Sofia say such a thing – she had known exactly what her words meant.

She had said it all with ill intentions. To hurt her, to hurt her mother – to hurt her father.

Sofia hadn’t known her father. Not in any way shape or form. Only two people, besides herself and her mother, could claim that knowledge.

“Miss?”

The low hum of the plane’s engine filled her senses. The chatter of voices speaking in hushed tones of trivial matters such as dinner or ‘where one may find a place to sleep once they were safely back on land’. And, slowly – gradually, the white-knuckled grip of her hair would loosen. Fingers, wading through the inky strands that fell like oil around her features.

Slate eyes met those of a flight attendant. A pretty, young woman dressed all in blue. Her blonde hair, up in a bun under a hat Hikari found to be rather cute.

“We are preparing for landing, miss. Please sit back properly and fasten your seatbelt.”

Below them, the stark city lights of Olivine made themselves known. Dots of stars spreading over what was previously nothing but ocean – now, the warmth that only a home could bring forth sat in its wake. Hikari gave a nod, indicating that she understood and just as quickly as the woman had appeared – she left.

The act of righting herself became one that felt mechanical. As though it was not her who did it, but rather someone else. Perhaps something else- --Perhaps it was the anticipation traversing her nerves like ants that caused this feeling.

Perhaps she was simply imagining it.

---

[. . . Chirp-chirp

It’s the voice of the cicadas

Chirp-chirp . . .]

Hikari lingered in the doorway that lead to her mother’s room – fingers burnt from early adventure picking at wood that needed a fresh coat of paint. Johanna was a homemaker by heart, but a carpenter she was not.

The same woman was on her knees, top half fully hidden from her daughters sight within a closet littered with boxes that held everything and nothing. Items of which Hikari had never seen before – trinkets of music boxes and lights that lacked bulbs. Cords, notes and dresses too small for anyone that lived within these walls.

---

“Is it really so important to you?” Johanna had asked. “To know them?”

“Of course it is. I- That’s why I wanted to talk to Sofia.”

“Yes, I know that but… That didn’t go so well. I would hate for you to leave for Johto, only to get the same reaction from your father’s parents.”

“It… It will be different. They will want me, we are family after all.”

“Well, remember that you have me, sweetheart. Isn’t that enough?”

---

As a sliver of the doors wood frame peeled off – the tip, digging into the pad of her thumb (her mind, telling her to push it deeper still and draw blood-), Hikari knew she couldn’t answer that question with outmost honesty. At least, not to her mother’s face.

… Of course Johanna wasn’t enough. When had she ever been?

It was why the mention of her paternal grandparents had come up. A side of the family neither of the women truly knew much about. Though Johanna spent her youth with Koh – shared more about herself to him than to her own parents, she barely could claim to know the names of his own.

There was, however, hope. Any of the belonging Koh left behind in his hasty retreat could hold the information needed.

--Which was what the mother of the duo was now searching for. Digging through boxes that hadn’t seen the light of day in years – holding memories that both filled her heart with joy, as well as hurt her at the remembrance of loss. Pictures, books and writings in an all too familiar handwriting laid bare around her knees within the closet.

More than once, she thought better than to share the pictures that she found with Hikari.

[. . . Well, it’s the summer . . .]

Eventually, they had found what they had been searching for. A wrinkly piece of paper that had seen better days. --It was all that Hikari needed to make up her mind.

---

The streets of Olivine sat different than those back home. Where cobbled streets and gravel paths once made up the majority of towns, now paved streets and soil were the decided factors in terms of roadwork. It felt foreign in all the wrong ways, yet perhaps there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with that. For as she took a deep breath – the salty scent of the ocean nearby, filling her lungs until she couldn’t hold it anymore – Hikari felt lighter. Better. --As though a weight had come to lift from her breast. As though something was gone, now replaced with an anticipation she hadn’t felt since she was twelve years old.

“So…” Hikari lulled her head to herself, eyes following the homes that lined the street for but a moment before she dug her hand into the pocket of her coat. A piece of clothing unbefitting the  spring that Johto held, perhaps, – as back home, snow still littered the grounds wherever you went.

Within it, a neatly folded piece of paper made itself known against her fingertips.

‘Hiroji and Masae Otsu. Off the beaten path, Ecruteak City.’

Her mother’s scribbled handwriting was her only remembrance of home.

Light footsteps in the quiet night, the sound only rivaled by chatter of bars past glass doors as she wandered by. The bumps and turns the wheels of her luggage took, held its own unique quality that almost felt dreamlike. And had this been like any other of her visits to foreign regions – then perhaps she would’ve lingered within the port, or found herself bedding. … Entertainment, or to simply take time to sit by the ocean and gain the sense that everything in this world was right once more.

However… she would rather move forward, than to stay in this city that by the end of the day meant so little to her.

She wasn’t here to tourist around, after all.

---

Hikari had always known of her father’s roots. Not only because many children of Sinnoh had at least one foreign father or mother, most commonly from the neighboring regions, but because Koh had been prominent with teaching her the customs he himself had grown up with. Johto and its sister region, Kanto, were neighbors to the isolated Sinnoh – yet their differences were worlds apart. A commonality in language meant nothing, if the structures that founded them sat different at their roots.

Hikari had not known of a difference in her behavior, until she entered kindergarten and saw that to bow and slur your words were not common behavior among the other children. --Sometimes, she regretted righting her way of speaking to mimic that of her mother’s accent, rather than her fathers. It lost its quality – and she lost what little she shared with him.

But as Ecruteak City spread before her, a long night of nothing but walking (and a quick rest of the road, if the stains that lined the hem of her skirt were anything to go by) through the wilderness that didn’t hold the same thickness as that of Sinnoh – Hikari couldn’t help but feel something akin to shame about not having taken the opportunity to visit Johto earlier in her admittedly short life.

Though it was still the earliest of hours – where dew clung to blades of grass and a haze that tasted of water spread over the streets (as though in a fairytale of long forgotten years), Ecruteak buzzed with quiet life. Of women at their balconies and front doors, dusting off the stains of the night from paved platforms. Boys carrying paper packages under their arms, jogging past her as though in a hurry to deliver the mail before the larger part of the community woke to the world once more.

--Young girls that perhaps were her own age, dressed in the finest of silk robes walking in lines of two between buildings that didn’t lack in beautiful architecture. Their wooden shoes, clacking against the pavement that barely held a hint of cobble within its texture.

Their white painted faces stood out to her the most – a beauty she had never been exposed too before in her life. And as she knelt to a crouch under the wooden panel that played as cover over a stained window, being careful in tucking her skirt around her limbs in a fashion that was presentable, her eyes couldn’t help but track the girls as they one by one entered a building that played tunes unfamiliar to her ears.

An acoustic sound, of something like a guitar yet it could not be.

After the last young girl disappeared from her sight, a significantly older woman (dare she say, someone who could perhaps be her grandmothers age, had she fully known that number) took their place. Walked out to seemingly breathe in the early morning air, her hand digging into the sleeve of her own robe to find herself a mindless task to fulfill – until her eyes landed on Hikari, who diverted her own gaze just as quickly.

If it was rude to stare… Then she hadn’t known.

But instead of dwelling on the matter, she once more brought out her mother’s scribbled note. Though less neat than previously, as she hadn’t taken care in properly folding it once she brought it out before, the writing sat no less prominent.

Names and lose directions.

‘Off the beaten path, Ecruteak City’ meant as little to her as French, for she did not know the language more than she knew her way around Johto. And as her eyes scanned the surroundings – roads that waded like snakes between wooden homes and buildings, Hikari could not even begin to guess which way would take her where she needed to go.

“I’ll just have to… To try every direction I suppose.” She mumbled under her breath – righting herself up to a stance once more. Her palms, smoothing out the length of her skirt over her knees and just as she righted a misplaced strand of hair behind her ear, she once more caught the eyes of that one particular woman.

--Something akin to a cigar, she figured, sat between slender fingers and the smoke that puffed past painted lips mingled almost seamlessly with the surrounding mist. Her feet took her to the woman before a decision had properly been made within her mind – the wheels of her luggage, bumpy and loud against the shifting and inconsistent roads. It broke the serenity of the morning, rudely so, perhaps – yet she couldn’t do much about it.

It was hesitantly, quietly, that she voiced her troubles. “Ma’am I was wondering if… If you could help me find someone?”

For a moment, it appeared as though the woman hadn’t heard her – or, perhaps, that she was ignoring her. Something that stumped the young girl’s confidence for but a moment. But as another huff (of a slender stick that looked as though it was almost electrical) rolled its smoke into the atmosphere, coal eyes came to meet blue.

“… Go on, kid.”

---

What had been meant as a simple show of directions, ended with a cup of tea being shared by a low table opposite of each other. As young girls – the same ones she had come to see earlier, dressed in gorgeous robes that Hikari found herself to be just a little bit jealous of – served them the hot beverage and took care in showing pleasantries she had thought was only befitting the most important of company, words were exchanged about interests and desires.

Who Hikari was – to which she replied with her full, given name – to why she decided to leave a place such as Sinnoh for the quiet of Johto. --Something she answered with honestly and care.

“I haven’t seen my father in years,” she would start. And if there was a tenderness that came over the older woman features, a slow nod of her head to indicate something that may be seen as sympathy, then it was minimal enough to pass Hikari right by, “… But I know that his parents are from here. I want to see them, because maybe they would like to meet me as well. Or, well… at least that’s what I hope will be the case.”

Kazuyo, as she had come to learn was the woman’s name, gave a laugh that almost rumbled within her chest. “I’m sure they will be delighted. Family is very important here, you must know. A lost granddaughter is something that will be welcomed with open arms.”

And Hikari wanted to believe her, though doubt would mar her features without her knowledge. Something Kazuyo quickly commented on, before tea time was over.

“If they don’t want you, then you can stay with me and my girls. You would make a wonderful geisha.”

---

‘Off the beaten path’, in this case, seemed to indicate south, then east. Directions easy to follow, until you actually had to divert from the laid path ahead. More than perhaps she should’ve, Hikari left her luggage behind to search the tree lines to her left – to try and locate a road that looked meaningful, but with no true or honest luck.

Kazuyo had been terribly helpful and, if she let herself pass judgement so quick – Hikari trusted her intentions to be good. There was no reason not to, as the woman had done nothing but be kind towards her. --It was she who didn’t know the lay of the land well enough to find a road to take her to her grandparent’s quiet farm. It was she, as her eyes once more scanned her surroundings, who was lost.

And it was her own fau-

“Oh.”

Faltering in her step, Hikari touched the back of her left hand to her eyes – rubbing away the sleep that still lingered within her. Tea had been helpful in waking her up, for but a moment. However, the withdrawal of the caffeine did her no favors. Perhaps she should’ve rested properly, rather than pushed on through the night. --Yet she was conscious enough to see a road – lush with foliage, yet prominent, distinguished with nothing but an iron beam and a sign.

*Otsu Estate*

She had found it. Home.

Something akin to butterflies came to form within her gut at the prospect of meeting those she so desperately sought – enough for her to fumble in her haste to wander the trampled path. Her luggage fell in her attempt to push it under the beam, staining the outside in mud. Next, she almost lost her shoes in her own attempt at traversing the beam, the length of her skirt impossible to keep modest around her limbs.

But this little mishap didn’t truly matter, for down this road laid the home that her father had grown up in. Down this road, her grandparents could be found.

With a spring to her step, Hikari hurried towards her future.

---

Much like the architecture of Ecruteak, the Otsu Estate was made out of nothing but wood. For such a grand name, it was a rather modest building – yet as she wandered a path through fields of rice and other such crops, she supposed that the land they owned was the true bringer of its name. Propped on a short hill, verandas lined the perimeter of the house. What she guessed to be paper shields, enclosing it save for a few that sat open by their given sets of stairs.

It was beautiful, in all the way that Sinnoh was not. Her grip tightened around the luggage she so feverishly had trudged along – her strides lengthening, until a voice made itself known.

“Are you lost, young miss?”

She paused, not for the first time that day. Slate eyes seeking the fields clad in mist, until they fell on a man. Dressed in what she could only describe as slacks – robes fitted loosely around his torso that made him appear larger than he otherwise would have. --His hands sat cupped behind his back, arched as it were.

It took her a moment to find her voice. “I… I’m here to see Hiroji and-“

“You’re speaking to him.”

A heartbeat – two.

If the world could come to a stop, then right then and there would be the moment to do so. For Hikari felt her breath be lost within her throat – felt numbness take over her fingertips, enough for her to lose her grip of her luggage. It unceremoniously fell to its hind legs, before toppling over into the dirt path.

With less grace than was deserved, Hikari descended the modest hill that separated the farmland from the rest on the palms of her hands spread behind her for support. Her skirt, taking the blunt of the soil that lingered after previous downpour – yet she did not seem to mind. Did not seem to care.

For her grandfather was right there.

And had she held any sense, any inkling of the manners that were once beaten down her throat like gravel – then she wouldn’t have taken to wrapping her arms around his waist the second she got close enough to do so. Her cheek, pressing against his chest to hear a heartbeat rattle within his cage. --Had she held any sense, any inkling of manners, then she would’ve understood that the wet sobs that wrecked through her were not a proper, nor normal, reaction in the given situation.

But there was simply a relief – an overwhelming such feeling – at having found a piece of herself that had long been gone.

Hiroji was not her father, no. But in this moment, it almost felt as though he was.

“It’s me,” she would express through a shake in her speech. His hands, laying to rest against her shoulders which only prompted more rushed sentences past tight lips. “It’s me, I’m Hikari I’m- It’s me.”

And as her eyes sought his – a dark coal that mimicked those of many others she had come to see in this region (like those of her fathers, of which she hadn’t seen in years) – there was a sinking feeling within her gut at the possibility of him not knowing. --Not knowing her name. Not knowing who she was – not knowing that she was their grandchild of a son long gone.

But as seconds ticked by as minutes – an eternity, if she counted – something tender would reach his features in a way that exceeded any and all of her expectations.

“… Hikari,” he would speak her given name, a sound that almost caused tears to spill over her cheeks. His hand that held a shake, yet strength, cupping her cheek as though he needed to look at her just a little more closely. “Have you grown so much already? My, how time pass quickly…”

And the young girl laughed – let herself smile in earnest, in a fashion that had felt so foreign to her for so long. Hiroji wasn’t like Sofia – he didn’t look at her as though she was a mistake. An annoyance. Someone to feel shame over.

No.

“Yes, yes I- I’m not a little girl anymore. But it’s me!”

He looked as her as though she was family, like a treasure to keep dear. It was everything she had come to wish for.

---

Masae – a woman short in stature, with a back as hunched as that of her husbands – had been just as enthusiastic about her arrival, if not more. Words past chapped lips played at affection. Her wrinkled hands, cupping Hikari’s cheeks in a fashion she figured would be a common occurrence from then on.

“Oh, you look just like him, don’t you?” Masae complemented, her granddaughters luggage being brought up winding stairs by her late husband. These were words Hikari had never gotten to fully hear in her life before. Because, though her eastern complexion mimicked that of her fathers more, it was always Johanna who had earned the praise for having a daughter that resembled her so closely.

“I do? You’re- You’re too kind, I don’t.”

“Don’t say that. I will show you just how much you resemble him later, alright?”

A promise and show and tell, after Hikari got herself situated within their home – a suggestion of changing out of her clothing, to something less soiled – was enough for Hikari to follow along with their wishes.

The moment the door, thin as paper, slid to a close behind her and nothing but silence formed around her – the reality of the situation beat at her in soft blows.

A quiet, which allowed her to fully hear the pounding of her own heart within her throat. Excitement, as well as the fear that she had held of the possible rejection and distaste that very well could’ve been a reality. Lingering within her limbs like shakes of epileptic shocks. She had expected nothing, as well as everything – and in luck she had never considered herself to have, she had gotten the best possible outcome.

It was simply unbelievable. Something that did not happen to her, for happiness had not been within her life for so, so long.

The soft padding of her bare feet against the room’s wooden flooring added to the serenity. The dream. A window, propped open by a bed that sat elevated and neat. Her knee came to rest upon it (taking care in keeping the soiled hem of her skirt bunched within the palms of her hands) to take in the view she had been a part of just moments ago.

A fairytale made reality, and in this story – Hikari was not the tragic protagonist who came to suffer by actions out of her hands. --In this story, she was the lucky few that got to watch everything simply pass by.

---

That the room she had earned herself in such a short amount of time was one that lacked personality of any true kind, didn’t deter her from wondering if it once had belonged to her father. --An idea that brought more unfiltered joy, then it perhaps had any right to, as she unbuckled the straps that held her luggage closed shut.

It was a question she would have to pose at another time.

---

As Hikari made her way down stairs of exposed wood – a lengthy dress more befitting summer than late spring swaying around her bare legs, on repeat within her mind the song once played at her mother’s home made itself known.

The lulling voice of the man, a soft hum within her mind as she once more joined her grandparents in their common room.

[. . . Parasol spin-spin, and I’m bored

Parasol spin-spin, and I’m bored

Chasing stitches in the sky,

And when I cross some paving stones . . .]

For minutes, hours perhaps, quiet chatter of questions and stories came to be shared between generations once lost. Pictures of Hikari in her youth – ones that her father had apparently sent his mother in a show of fatherly pride. Something that he had never displayed back home.

--That the smile that played at her lips through it all (as fingers once burned by the creatures that would eventually protect her with all that they could played at picture edges that sat water damaged and brittle) was a sight once rare, didn’t seem to matter in this moment.

[. . . A summer shower

Comes along with it. ]

As the beating of fresh rain smattered against the house’s wooden roof – bleeding puddles within fertile soil in fields ever tended, Hikari came to wonder if perhaps…

Just perhaps.

It wasn’t so wrong of her to feel this happiness. Just this once.

[missytearex]

To Read List - Ziall

This list is purely for myself to keep track of everything I still want to read. Its gonna change as I actually read though them and find more stuff to add.

Find fics I’ve already read here.

Ziall

playing from the same hand by brokendrums

Niall and Zayn grow closer on the European leg of the Where We Are Tour.

Zayn hums again, low from the base of his chest and Niall’s hand skims down Zayn’s arm six more times, Niall counts them slowly to match his rhythm, before it feels a bit more natural.

"Don’t think Perrie’ll make Paris,” Zayn finally says. And that’s that.

It’s Undoubtedly Love by sunshinexbomb

“So, Zayn Malik likes me,” Niall repeats, strumming subconsciously at the guitar that’s still in his hand. “Does he really like me, like me, like me? Do you think he does?” he sings to the same tune as before.

Liam and Louis both shrug. “Dunno, but that’s what he said. What are you going to do?” Liam asks.

“Nothing,” Niall replies, strumming out a few more chords.

“Nothing?!” Louis exclaims. “You’ve gotta do something. Zayn Malik just said he thinks you’re cute and you’re gonna do nothing?”

Niall’s the one to shrug this time. He takes off the snapback on his head, ruffles his hair a bit before saying, “Don’t think there’s really much I can do is there? Just gonna record my video now. Go on with life.”

--

In which Niall sings songs on YouTube, Zayn is an international pop-star, Harry tells stories, Louis does makeup, and Liam likes to take pictures.

Crawl Into Your Atmosphere by spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)

Niall doesn't see it coming. Zayn's on the football team. Niall's in marching band. This isn't supposed to happen, except... then it does. 

Bombshell Blond (Wired Up To Detonate) by slashter

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Zayn starts, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands. “But you look a little...nervous?” Niall scoffs but Zayn can see the worry underneath the surface. “Consider yourself corrected.” Zayn just raises an eyebrow at that, and eventually Niall groans, rubbing at his face. “Fuck. Okay, look, I’m not good at this whole--” he waves his hands around, “--wooing thing. I’m not someone who goes on dates and, like, does all that. I’ve never had the time to do that, even.” “You’ve never been in a relationship?” Zayn asks, a bit surprised. Niall blushes. “Never really cared about stuff like that, until I met you.”

[Or the one where Zayn's a spy, Niall's his target, and the whole world's their playground]

see the sparks filled with hope (you are not alone) by niallszayn

„Hello,” Niall mumbled, hot flush already crawling up his neck again. „I should…I won’t keep you from your work.” Zayn sighed a little and rubbed at his forehead, leaving a small smudge of dirt behind. Niall’s fingers twitched with how much he wanted to reach out and wipe it away. Ireland, 1923. When Niall returns from war, he’s not the same young man he was before. Back home at his parent’s mansion, it takes an old friend and young gardener to get him to open up. But what is Zayn to Niall? What can he be?

The One With The On-Screen Boyfriend by brokenstereotype

Zayn Malik plays the star role of Zander Phelps on the hit television drama show, Bradford Heights. When newcomer, Niall Horan is cast to be Zander's new love interest, things take an interesting turn for Zayn. It might not be the worst thing to happen.

An on-screen boyfriends AU that contains as much drama as there is sweet gay loving. Featuring in-love-but-nonhalant-about-our-feelings Liam/Louis and Harry as the chef roommate that is Zayn's biggest fan.

Out of Space, Out of Time by flares

Zayn: Hey, I’m Zayn. I’m here for our date.

For a few seconds, he just stares at the screen, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. Harry’s voice—“You’re fine, Zayn. You’re doing fine.” — barely registers in his head. The text ‘Niall is typing…’ pops up and Zayn wishes that he’d been more adamant about the alcohol. Wine is sounding really good right about now.

AU in which Zayn is new in town, Niall might not be where Zayn thinks he is, and Harry sets them up on a blind Skype date.

headlights, strobe lights (& we can take the long way) by restitched (beingothrwrldly)

Zayn and Niall go on an American road trip after Zayn graduates from uni.

Warnings for cursing, Niall making fun of Zayn, Zayn making fun of Niall, lots of selfies, lots of kissing, Zayn singing karaoke, Niall with too many feelings, and all of the donuts and waffles on the east coast.

lighthouse by justaboat

au. niall's been waiting for zayn his whole life. when he finally comes it might be too late.

i wanna hurry home to you by roofpizza

zayn is an actor; niall is a cameraman. hollywood sucks, but at least they've got each other

come take my pulse by nicheinhischest

"Everything’s always better when the sun comes up," Niall says, idly drawing a Z on Zayn’s elbow. Or an N. It’s hard to tell. “Sorta funny, when you think about it - whole world’s fucking dead, but the sun still rises and sets like nothing’s changed. The predictability is nice.”

Zayn sighs and tells him tiredly, “Y'know, you say eerily cheerful things for someone who bashed a zombie’s face in with a golf club today."

rhythm & blues by JaneKerkovich

Zayn thinks being a college freshman with an English major and a boyfriend in a frat is enough for him -- until he loses a bet, loses The X-Factor and loses Niall.

bruised giver, grit spinner by hungerpunch

"Niall's never seen romantic love in the real world. His parents were never married, but even the marriages he’s seen haven’t looked happy. He's seen love in the movies, sure, but the movies aren't about Dogtown. The romantic comedies aren't about poor kids with fucked up parents. They aren't about a skinny skater boy and his best friend. But maybe, he thinks, they should be."

A Z-Boys AU.

Experience Points by el_em_en_oh_pee

The good news is that Simon has decided to let Zayn start officially developing the game she and Liam have spent years talking about creating. The bad news is that, because Liam is bedridden after a debilitating accident, Simon puts the new girl, Niall, on the project with Zayn instead. The worse news is that Niall is just Zayn's type.

Some Nights I'm Scared You'll Forget Me Again by pukeandcry

Zayn stifles a groan. He’s not terribly surprised -- Harry’d been mooning over Louis since the day they met three years ago when Zayn had moved into the house next to him -- but he’d been hoping that Harry would eventually get over it and redirect his attention to someone else. This development does not bode well for that turn of events, though. (High School AU)

Not All Stories Have a Happy Ending by KelliDiane

Andy Samuels has been traded. His replacement, Niall Horan, doesn’t really impress the team captain, Zayn Malik.

10 things i ____ about you by robpatFF

“Did the doctors tell you anything already?”

Niall shrugs a little. The movement catches the collar of the too-big t-shirt he has on, one of Liam’s he must have stashed away in his bag. There’s a bruise on his shoulder, probably from the impact, hitting something hard, unmoving and solid. “Far as I know I’m thinking about trying out for X-Factor next month. They said that already happened.” He bites his lip, and his gaze flicks over at Zayn for a moment. “Did I win?”

Amnesia fic.

something about the boy by countthestars

About three things Niall is absolutely positive. First, Zayn is the most attractive person he’s ever seen in real life. Second, the chances he’s actually a vampire are, like, slim to none. Probably. And third, he’s going to kill Harry for putting that idea in his head in the first place.

if i was your boyfriend by countthestars

Zayn's an up-and-coming R&B musician. Niall's a uni student. It's complicated.

burning bright by countthestars

Sometimes people aren't what they seem.

what's a ghost to a nonbeliever by countthestars

Liam shoots Zayn a nervous look. “Zayn’s not,” he starts, clearing his throat. “Zayn doesn’t really believe in ghosts. He’s a, whatchamacallit, a--”

“A skeptic,” Harry says, green eyes gleaming. “How… intriguing."

when the moon hits your eye by countthestars

Niall delivers pizzas and Zayn's a little bit in love.

brighter than sunshine by countthestars

Zayn’s come to trust Niall, and Harry by extension, more than he does most people. Niall had seen through the chinks in Zayn’s armor and had gotten under his skin with impressive quickness. There are still parts of Zayn’s life, though, that he doesn’t know how to share.

Zayn’s learned to trust Niall with himself, he thinks, but he doesn’t know if he can trust him with the most important thing to him.

or; the one where Niall and Harry work in a bakery and Louis and Zayn are struggling to figure it all out.

all the stars align by countthestars

“Your mark,” the boy says. Niall glances down at the name scrawled across the inside of his bicep, his chest suddenly tight. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “'S kinda unusual, right? Never met a Zayn.” “I'm Zayn,” the boy tells him, sounding a bit strained.

Spin For You by sunshinexbomb

“You and Zayn will be going home together tonight if it’s the last thing Payno and I ever do. This pining has gone on too long.”

Niall rolls his eyes, muttering, “I’m not pining.”

“Totally are, mate,” Liam says sympathetically, cuddling into Niall’s side. “But it’s okay. Zayn totally is too. He’s just too,��� Liam pauses, making some vague hand gestures, “y’know, to admit it.”

--

Or in which Niall has a big, huge obvious crush on Zayn and just won't admit it.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name by StormDancer

“Well boys,” he says, scratching at Harley’s head. Rhino barks at that, and Zayn obliges him by petting him too. Apparently, that means that he’s showing too much attention to the dogs, and Tigger appears from wherever she’d been hiding, taking her rightful place in his lap. “And girl,” Zayn adds, politely. “Guess we’re back.”

The Ground Whereon He Walks by StormDancer

“You could come home with me.”

“Yeah?” Zayn turns, waggles his eyebrows and leers. “You offering yourself as a rebound?”

“Hah,” Niall snorts, and glances down at the ground. “No, like. I’m going home to spend the summer, you could tag along, if you wanted.”

Zayn blinks. “To Ireland?”

like a cigarette in the mouth or a handshake in the doorway by zouee

i've been down across the road or two, but now i've found the velvet sun that shines on me and you // Zayn and Niall start living together

Come Get Back in Bed, We've Still Got Time Left by YinAndYangOnIce

based off of this really fucking cute video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EFYlRd85xsQ

Does It Ever Drive You Crazy? by YinAndYangOnIce

like I said based off of Karakura's work about after the Night Changes video, Niall goes to a convenience store to nurse his wounds after a date gone horribly, horribly wrong where he runs into Zayn, who's had a similarly awful night and they find a way to cheer each other up

The Tale Of Lucky and Bright Eyes by YinAndYangOnIce

Zayn is the editor-in-chief of his university's literary magazine who is dragged to a party by his best mates and meets Niall, a carefree, frat boy with whom he is instantly enamored. Soon after that party, someone starts writing anonymous love poems to him and sends them to the magazine.

I Major in Loving You by YinAndYangOnIce

“You told him what?” Liam crowed, staring at him with wide, judgmental eyes while Louis howled with laughter next to him. 
“I had no choice!” Niall said, dropping his head into his hands miserably.

“Actually, you did,” Liam said incredulously. “You could’ve told him that you weren’t actually part of the art program!”

“But he was putting words in my mouth and I didn’t want to tell him I’d stalked him there and he was really, really hot, Li, I didn’t want to freak him out,” Niall said pleadingly, as if he was appealing in court and Liam was a law student, so he wasn’t that far off.

Or:

Niall is an idiot in love and is just really bad at this romance thing.

How Can You Swallow So Much Sleep by brokendrums

Tour ends and Niall has insomnia. Zayn vows to cure it.

i set my clocks early 'cause i know i'm always late by theamazingpeterparker

Contrary to popular belief, signing up to be a TA in the US History to 1865 freshman course might be the best decision Niall's ever made.

Or, the one where Zayn reads a lot of books, and Harry reassures Niall that there's nothing wrong with wanting to sleep with your professor.

who let the dogs out by theamazingpeterparker

Zayn wants a puppy and Niall's a huge pushover.

skinny love, just last the year. by theamazingpeterparker

Zayn doesn't like Valentine's Day. Niall gives flowers to random people on the street.

you and me plus baby makes three by alnima

After the death of their friends, Zayn and Niall are forced to raise a baby together. Not like they have a problem with that, just a problem with each other.

follow the sun by carissima

Zayn needs a date to his cousin's wedding. Niall's ready, willing and available to be his plus one.

Or the one where Zayn and Niall are pretend boyfriends and it goes exactly how you think it goes.

perspective by words_unravel

per·spec·tive pərˈspektiv/

noun

1. the art of drawing solid objects on a two-dimensional surface so as to give the right impression of their height, width, depth, and position in relation to each other when viewed from a particular point. 2. a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; a point of view.

or, a look at four ways Niall and Zayn are Niall and Zayn.

this is how it starts, lightening strikes the heart. by justaboat

zayn doesn't want to date niall (except that he kinda does), niall has a secret, louis is a little shit, and harry and liam are the roommates that give (mostly) bad advice.

You've Got This Spell On Me by VeronikaLP

The one where Niall is a cheery Hufflepuff on said house's Quidditch team and Zayn cheers for him even when he's a Ravenclaw. Featuring disgustingly-in-love Larry, and a pinch of Sophiam.

on the brink of by autopsyofwebs

Niall tries not to think about it. Knowing something and doing something about it are two different things. If anything, he thinks he should feel relief. He’s one of the lucky ones. A lot of people never meet one of their soul mates, much less get to speak to them or see them every day. It doesn’t have to mean anything, he tells himself, and still loses his breath every time he catches Zayn on the stairwell, the crease of his smile, the way he laughs like he’s glad to see him.

les mystères de l'horizon by hungerpunch

"Preferably heist!fic, but anything with ziall as partners in crime (con artists, hackers, assassins, etc.) in an ot5 team. I'd like for one of them to be new to the team and for Zayn and Niall to start off on the wrong foot."

we put the world away (we get so disconnected) by horlik_aholic

Greek Mythology AU where Niall's sad, Zayn's immortal, and Liam and Louis are doing what they can.

Featuring wrathed gods and ancient curses and dazzled Niall.

take a chance on me (you won't regret it) by liferuining_feels

“And what about you? What do you want?”

Niall can’t find his voice but he wants to say you. I want you.

Or the one where Niall tries to help his friends figure out what makes them happy. For Niall? He just wants Zayn.

The Picture of Zayn and Niall by mightierthanthecanon

Based on the prompt: English Lit professor Zayn is a bit confused as to why he's so fascinated with one of his students, Niall Horan.

After All This Time by justyrae

Niall had expectations about his years at Hogwarts, but none of them prepared him for meeting Zayn.

I Wanna Show You Where I Sleep, Keep You There A Couple Weeks by KayleeJohn

Zayn wants to complain that Louis said he’d have the bed until at least morning, but it comes out more of a strangled groan than anything else, “Ngh,” punctuated by a click in Zayn’s throat.

Or the one where Zayn accidentally ends up cuddling with Niall, but he kind of doesn't mind it.

maybe we found love right where we are by niallszayn

Zayn Malik is one of the hottest magazine editors in the industry but he's overworked, so his business partners suggest he get an assistant. Enter Niall Horan, who is quirky and fun and can't write an article to save his life, but he can make a mean frappuccino (and on one rare occasion, give an orgasmic back rub after a long stressful night) so Zayn keeps him around, but definitely not for his face, absolutely not, nope.

Where Do We Begin? by shipsdrifting

Clearly, if he's to follow Niall's lead, the protocol here is for both of them to pretend that they've never met, that they have no recollection of the events that unfolded between them that night.

Zayn takes a breath and sits up straighter. He can do this. Zayn can absolutely try to forget that night ever happened.

Or, Uni AU where Zayn and Niall start working next to each other - and they both kinda pretend that they've completely forgotten about that drunken but mind-blowing one-night-stand they had a month ago.

Who Needs Dubai? by Idzzdi

“Never thought I'd see you on this side of the counter,” Zayn says lowly, looking amused and more awake then Niall has ever seen him in his life before. Also, more attractive. He looks so effortlessly cool it is just not fair and Niall's mouth has become so dry, all he can do is stare.

or Niall has this thing for his coffee shop regular Zayn and they run into each other one night at the airport. Zayn shows him how to properly annoy the airport security.

the awful edges where you end and i begin by nicheinhischest

“I could’ve killed you a dozen times,” Zayn tells him, and he means for it to sound like an apology, maybe. Proof of a conscience, even after everything. Even after this. “A hundred.”

Niall mockingly clicks his tongue in disapproval. “And I’m supposed to thank you for saving it all for a melodramatic stairwell scene?”

You're the cure, you're the pain by ifzi0531

"I hate to break this to you, but I don't think a baby uses rabbit shampoo for bathing." Zayn teased.

Niall pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. "You know what I meant! I thought we agreed that practice makes perfect or whatsoever."

or

Zayn and Niall babysit a friend's bunny, during which Niall tells Zayn that he wants to adopt a child.

Naive Melody by liquidmeasure

"The clock on the side table says it’s just after midnight when he wakes up to Theo screaming and crying for his mother. Just after midnight, so a good three and a half hours of sleep and that’s that. It’s like the kid has finally caught on that all is not well. That his parents have really and truly gone. He keeps crying when Niall picks him up out of his cot and it seems he doesn’t stop for three days."

Post-Zayn canon fic. Zayn steps in to help Niall deal with Theo. Niall isn't sure how to deal with Zayn.

This is sort of a mish-mash of a couple of my prompts, including canon pining and single dad Niall with optional accidental baby acquisition. I couldn't figure out how to give Niall a baby without something terribly sad happening, so I opted for an extended babysitting gig. I hope it works! <3

of an endless summer by petals

Zayn shrugs unapologetically. “My first time away from home,” he admits with a blush that make Niall’s knees feel weak. “But there are perks, I think.”

“Yeah, I love it here,” Niall says. “It’s kind of nice getting paid to do stuff like this, like watch kids swim in the lake, while you either swim with them, or you could even read a book. I don’t know, there’s a lot to love.”

“Not really the perk I was thinking of,” Zayn says. “But yeah, sure. The lake, whatever.”

Niall stares at him, watching as Zayn winks before he goes back to his food.

All We Got Up To by venividivici

AU where Zayn and Niall go on a double date with Liam and Louis, that Harry ends up accidentally crashing. (But come on, it's Harry.)

You start a fire inside that I could never control by heart_eyes

“They call us freaks you know, in the local paper—on the news.” He said just above a whisper still cautious, as if admitting out loud that Jay's suspicions had been correct that secret service would jump out from where they were hiding just waiting for Zayn's confirmation before they carted him away to some lab somewhere for experimentation.

“That’s because they don’t understand, refuse to…it’s not like that everywhere though, in the bigger cities we’re more accepted not just tolerated so long as we stay hidden but praised for our abilities—they call us heroes.”

“What like Superman? Batman?” Zayn asked, tone mocking and full of doubt, but Jay’s next words chased the amusement right off his face.

“Exactly like them

(or the one where Zayn attends Heroes Anonymous meetings)

and if you know me, like i know you by horlik_aholic

They promised each other they’d keep in touch, but it wasn’t something that even needed to be discussed-- of course they’d keep in touch. They were Zayn and Niall.

Now Niall’s a senior in high school, newly 17 and ready to breeze through this last year and take on college next fall. He hasn’t heard from Zayn in 3 years.

or, Zayn moves to Niall's town after 3 years of not talking and Niall is coping.

(one of these days) i wish you were a hologram by groundopenwide

Zayn’s stomach churns, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut. “Right now—this is real? I’m not imagining things?”

“I’m right here,” Niall says softly. “I’m always right here, Zayn. Been here the whole time.”

Zayn's been having dreams- dreams that seem so real, he can't even distinguish fact from fiction anymore.

better than words (more than a feeling) by petals

im so sorry, Niall sends back. Followed by, mate got a new num, forgot it

He waits for the reply, because honestly, he sent this guy a picture of himself in the bath. In a green bath. The guy is probably laughing about it with his friends, Niall will probably become a meme on the Internet or something. Blond idiot in green water sending naked selfies to stranger meme.

i rly am sorry, he sends, hoping that’ll be enough to keep the guy from spreading his picture.

dnt worry bout it, cutie xx is the guy’s reply and Niall groans, dropping down on his bed face first. He can’t remember how to breathe. Honestly can’t remember.

Happiness, not in another place but this place. by LauDom

Niall stared at the screen for a long time. Had he met someone else in the club last night? What did the Z stand for? Zoe, Zander, Zeus?

So he decided to be funny and even though his face showed a clear hungover and sleep deprived-ness he sent a pouty selfie and texted: “Sorry, I think u have the wrng number.”

Sweater Weather by xTammyVx

It wasn't until they were outside the club that Niall squeezed Zayn's hand and said, “Come back with me?” then, “I kinda like you.”

Zayn wasn't stupid; he knew that the number of people Niall had slept with over the span of his four-year-long career was exactly what one could expect from a superstar, and that he probably pulled with lines like that all the time. However, simmering below that self-awareness was the unbelievable, untamable fire spreading from where they were touching, and all Zayn wanted was more.

2015: Zayn meets Niall on a post-concert night-out.

2019: Niall comes home for a mid-tour break.

So Hot That I Melted by PigSlay

Zayn's working his way through college to get his degree in art by working as a bartender at a local pub. One night, a group of people, including one stunning blonde named Niall, come there. After that, Niall keeps coming back almost every night and after serenading Zayn during one open mic night and exchanging phone numbers, they slowly become the best things to ever happen to each other.

A Story for the Kids (orphan_account)

"Da, why do you look at Zayn like he's a princess?"

[Niall and his daughter are new to London and Zayn's personal life is a bit messy. Somehow, they make things work.]

I'll Dance With You, I'll Laugh With You (Til It's Christmas in the Room) by tobedwithacupoftea

After a death in Niall's family, he must stay at Hogwarts over Christmas their seventh year. Zayn also stays at the castle and though the boys have a more than amazing Christmas, some ill-advised magic at New Years may ruin it all.

crooked love in a straight line down by leighbot

“You’d like him if you got to know him,” Liam whispers while everyone else finds seats as well.

“I already know him,” Zayn responds.

“Seems like there’s a bit of tension between you two.”

Zayn rolls his eyes hard enough they hurt. “Like homicidal, maybe.”

Or, the studying abroad AU where they're all supposed to stick together but Zayn and Niall get off on the wrong foot. Zayn finds solace in his graffiti, a pretty American boy and a mysterious commenter on his art blog.

With side 'love at first sight' Liam/Harry and 'it's complicated' Louis/Eleanor/Nick.

Sore Winner by venividivici

"No. No, no. Just. Just shut up. Figure Skating isn't a game, okay. I don't play figure skating, I perform it. Big difference from your elementary recess time you call a sport. That's a game." Niall only inhales, sighs loudly into the cold air. "This is nice. You and me. This chilly night, the stars are bright. Perfect time to lay out how we really feel about each other, don't you think?" Or, Zayn likes the stars; Niall reads too many horoscopes; and neither is mature enough to drop their irrational hate.

One, Two, Three Strikes You're Mine by littlepinkbow

Having a crush on a player from your rival's baseball team is bad enough. Even worse when they're literally the most relaxed person ever. It just takes a bit of time and a bit more reckless abandon to figure it out.

let your heart go boom by liferuining_feels

Zayn arrives in Dublin with no expectations except to forget about the life he left behind in London. He's here on exchange for a year, and his only plan is to learn to be himself again. But no matter what, he can't seem to shake off the feeling that he's so helplessly lost.

Then he meets Niall, and suddenly life becomes a little bit more easier.

But what Zayn forgets is that time is ticking, and there's a return ticket to London with his name on it.

All He Needs by sunshineflying

Niall is out and proud at uni, but back in Ireland nobody knows he's gay - not even his family. After some conversation with his best friend and roommate Zayn, as well as their friends Liam and Louis, he knows it's time to just go home and be honest with his family. His crush on Zayn complicates things a bit, especially when Zayn offers to go to Ireland with Niall as moral support, but he follows through with it anyway.

Happiest Place On Earth by pocketfullofbees

It's always weird. Each time he sees the actual character he's surprised people recognize him. Then again, he never saw himself as any type of royalty.

_______

Or the AU where OT5 work as face characters at DisneyLand and Zayn's hopelessly in love with an Irish Faerie.

This Night was Made for Us by zaynplusanyone

Niall and Zayn have a tie that binds them, a bond. It takes them a while, but eventually they figure out that that bond is meant to be there, that it means something more. Tonight is about celebrating that bond, enjoying what they have, and remembering that even when the world is moving too quickly around them, they will always have each other.

Promise You'll Be Glad You Came by Jairo

“It’s Halloween and we’re trick-or-treating but you have no candy” AU.

Ain't No Sunshine by acue

AU where Zayn and Niall meet in an airport only because they were the ones to get assigned the same seat and Niall finds something out about Zayn pretty deep into their relationship that should have been mentioned at the way beginning.

Or the one where Zayn is in the army and Niall is completely smitten with Zayn, and waits for him to come home in one piece a lot.

Walk Away Now and You're Gonna Start a War by Niallaeger

Even the glass of water he had tried to force himself to drink, while sitting on the floor by the bedroom in Niall’s apartment debating whether or not he should bother to get up, left such a horrid taste on his tongue that he couldn’t make it past the first couple sips. It was like all the words he hadn’t said that morning mixed with the bitter taste of the ones he hadn’t had the decency to hold back, and now they’re just lingering, in his head, over his tongue, making his stomach turn, and now Harry’s asking him if he’s alright because he looks a little sick and all Zayn can do is nod.

Or, the one where Zayn doesn't think he can do anything right, and Niall just needs a little time. Basically, your soccer!AU with a healthy dose of angst.

The Not Exactly Late Night Show With Niall Horan by WhyHelloThere

When Niall forgets to book a guest artist for his radio show, Harry sets him up with a friend of a friend. Things just go from there.

I'm sending postcards from my heart, I don't care who sees what I've said by niallszayn

Niall spots who has to be the hottest guy on campus at the library but fails to ask him out when they run into each other. He posts about it on this cool new app though, and hopes for the best.

OR

another uni!au full of pining

Skate Your Way Into My Heart by littlepinkbow

Zayn really can't help but being fond over the ridiculously sweet boy attempting to teach the kids in his class how to rollerblade and Louis really really can't keep his mouth shut.

I've got your body on my skin (and tequila on my tongue) by bonjourziall (punkjuggie)

And at that exact moment Zayn didn't feel the need to drown himself in alcohol anymore. Because Niall's lips were far more intoxicating than any brand of tequila and Zayn craved Niall’s touch more than he craved the burning of the alcohol. or Zayn and Niall both start using alcohol as an excuse to keep hooking up with each other. or Niall is literally the reason that Zayn is becoming an alcoholic.

Perfection Will Not Come by becauseziall

"Later! I promise!" Zayn called after him, backpack weighing down his shoulders. Niall looked back over one shoulder with a goofy grin that overpowered the rest of his face.

"Yeah! Just keep studying your Calc, alright?"

Zayn turned so he walking backwards for a moment. "Yeah," he smiled, "alright," and with that, he turned around, heading back to his dorm, thoughts of sunshine and happiness and beautiful filling his mind.

start off the day singing by leighbot

Secretly, Niall’s pleased by the extra time spent with Zayn, often baiting the children to help him encourage Mr. Malik to join them for a song or two. At least, Niall hopes it’s secret. Based on the teasing he often suffers when around Louis or Harry, he doesn’t think he’s been as subtle as he’d like.

Thankfully, Zayn doesn’t seem to have picked up on Niall’s crush.

Or, the one where Niall is an elementary school music teacher and Zayn's first graders are possibly Niall's favorite class... and not just because Mr. Malik has a pretty smile. Okay, it's a bit because he has a pretty smile.

From Wrong to Right by sunshineflying

Zayn's struggling to let go of an old relationship, but his best friends and roommates Liam and Louis are determined to help him get over it. A chance encounter at a club and a failed attempt at getting someone's number leads Zayn right to the man he's been waiting for.

a house built by a doctor to the stars by fakeheaux

"There's no way you live there," Zayn laughs, brows pulling together. "That's Murder House, bro, no way."

Niall shrugs. "Murder House to you. Murder Home to me."

or niall is the baby of spirits ben and vivien harmon, raised by an eclectic group of ghosts

i don't wanna lose your touch (i don't wanna hurt this much) by fakeheaux

"Okay, so. So...you're stuck with each other," Harry says slowly. "Literally."

Zayn sighs, already done with the whole thing. "Yeah, Harry."

or zayn and niall get magically bonded together after they eat some sus chinese food

know you're not alone by fakeheaux

There are many beliefs of what a shift feels like. The most common one is that the shift always hurts, even after you’ve become used to it. In his opinion, that isn’t quite true. It’s not painful, per se, but it is intense. Shifting, to him, is like a rush of endorphins, adrenaline, and relief all at once. He shifts and it’s like going back home. It’s like - like the best feeling in the world.

or zayn doesn't like dogs which bothers niall so so much

on a wednesday, in a café by fakeheaux

"I like your glasses."

or niall is nosy and zayn speaks urdu in coffee shops

they say we are what we are, but we don't have to be by fakeheaux

"They hate us," Niall murmurs. "They're not going to let us fight with them, just 'cause we wear green."

Zayn shakes his head. "Green's just a color, babe. Don't make you who you are."

it's our paradise (and it's our war zone) by fakeheaux

"We were on a break!" Zayn yells.

or The One With Ross and Rachel, Reimagined

me, her, and the moon by dramaturgicallycorrect

“I think I should go home,” Niall says. “You should really get on. Dance with those boys your mum wants you to dance with.”

“I only want to dance with you,” Zayn says, taking her hand and giving her a spin, watching her dress flair beautifully before she pulls her in tight. She holds Niall’s waist tight, and Niall curls into her, resting her head against her chest. They sway slowly to the muffled sounds of the big band and clutch each other for dear life. This is all Zayn needs, her girl and the moon and the stars.

[Or Zayn invites Niall to her going away party, but neither of them want her to go away.]

that which we call a rose by dramaturgicallycorrect

Zayn pops his head around the door suddenly, the sounds of Louis stomping down the stairwell echoing out behind him. “Wait,” he says, even though Niall isn’t going anywhere. “What’s your name?” “Ah. I’m Niall.” He grins. “Although... what’s in a name?” “That which we call a rose,” Zayn says, trailing off with a small grin before the rest of him disappears behind the closing door.

[Or, they're at Juilliard and Niall plays the guitar and Zayn has a beautiful falsetto and Liam, Harry, and Louis need some help putting on Romeo and Juliet.]

nevada's fault by irishmizzy, miss_bennie

“Niall Horan, will you -- ow,” he winces when Harry flicks his neck, but when Zayn starts up again, the disaffected tone is gone, “will you do me the honor of marrying me tonight and winning this bloody game of truth or dare?”

this is no bridget jones by nicheinhischest

“Harry," Zayn feels like he’s losing it, "Harry, you know my life isn't a romantic comedy, right? No matter how much you try and make it one."

"Please, I've seen Love, Actually like... thirty times," Harry says, grinning. "This is going to be so much better.”

the creation of ursa major by robpatFF

Niall would pull him all the way if he could, wrap his sunlight infused hand around Zayn’s and pull them up until they couldn’t breathe. And Zayn would let him, only to return (loyal, dependable, periodic) and settle around his Sirius before he’d float off again.

i can see the sun in late december by robpatFF

Written for the prompt: it's cold in ireland and zayn is all skin and bones and niall is all extra blankets and warmth and kisses (basically lazy kissing under the covers fic) and then this happened

Settle Down With Me by robpatFF

artist!Zayn and fratboy!Niall. Zayn draws and Niall's in a frat and they make it work somehow, they do.

this silver spoon has fed me good by hickeyziall (scentedziall)

"We realise you won’t be thrilled about this, Zayn, but we hope you understand that this is necessary for you to be considered the heir of our business in the future."

Zayn cleared his throat to gain the attention of the boy, who whipped his head around in response. He was taller than Zayn, young and lanky in a charming way that matched the dimples in his cheeks. He wore long, wild hair, hardly contained in a bun, and the uniform green apron with the patisserie’s logo printed in black and white next to his nametag.

"Good luck. You’ll need it."

aka rich kid working in a bakery au?

The Lost Souls by daretoliveforever

Zayn is unique. He receives visions. Most people would think this is a gift. But Zayn thinks it’s a living Hell. He sees people having their lives taken away from them. Either by themselves, or others. The worst part is Zayn doesn’t know what to do. How can he help people when he’s only seen them in the visions?

Baby, It's You by alnima

Zayn Malik has an obsessive crush on famous Internet blogger Niall Horan, but what happens when Niall starts posting about a crush of his own?

amidst all the weather by Livy_May

Niall doesn’t tell Louis, for obvious reasons. He doesn’t tell Harry, either, because if Harry knows something, it’s only a matter of time before Louis knows it, too. And he doesn’t tell Liam because Liam is honestly the worst liar he’s ever met.

He’s not trying to keep it a secret. It just sort of... happens.

Wings Wouldn't Help You Drown by wasp

Zayn just wanted to watch the sun set, watch it bleed into the sky as same as ever in a world that’s forgotten about them, completely slipped under their feet and morphed and fucked up some more.

to put a little sunshine in your life by khakis

san diego au. zayn's a brooklyn boy who follows his maybe-ex-girlfriend to san diego. it turns out a whole lot lovelier than he could have hoped.

“Look at this little family,” Harry murmurs.

“You big softie,” Louis says, but his voice is so steeped in fondness that Zayn can almost taste it, and he feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the crush of bodies around him. He cranes his head a little and Niall meets him halfway, anticipating it, grinning as their eyes meet and reaching a hand up to grip comfortingly at the back of Zayn’s neck. Yeah, his gaze says, you belong here. We want you here. I want you here.

And then the chicken is burning and Harry yelps like he’s the one being singed and they fall apart as easily as they fell together.

Up towards the sun by wannabe_free

The first time Niall sees the small lumps on his back he freaks out. He stands naked in front of the mirror, the glassy surface still blurry with the steam of the shower he’s just had. There’s something in his back that feels odd. It doesn’t necessarily ache; it’s like a stretching feeling, something from his insides fighting to come onto the surface, pulling at the skin and muscles that come in its way.

AU- OT5-Niall centric. Niall isn't human.

Perfect Storm (orphan_account)

“Who the hell thought it was a good idea t’watch a horror movie in the middle of a thunderstorm?” Niall groaned.

or

The boys watch a scary movie during a storm, and it leaves Niall a bit shaken up (not that he'd admit it). And Zayn is there to save the day, as usual.

Whiteboard by lostinsanity

Niall’s a musician, Zayn’s an artist. Music and art are their lives, respectively. And the story shouldn't be much more complicated from there. But it is, because Zayn is deaf.

Of You I Grow Fonder by Klavier

"I'm Niall Horan, and it's a pleasure to meet you without deep-fried potatoes in my hair."

let's get (meta)physical by murkya

Zayn has a Niall situation that he's capital I Ignoring, and then suddenly he's got a burning problem he really can't ignore, capital letters or not. (modern myth/religious beings AU?)

staked through the heart and you're to blame (you give love a bad name) by biggrstaffbunch

Zayn's a vampire slayer and Niall's a vampire and it's all as star-crossed as it sounds. But also, maybe it's not.

(Featuring Liam as a Watcher that would give a certain Sunnydale librarian heart palpitations and Louis as the hell-raising--but not in the literal sense--sidekick. Plus, Harry.)

Inside My Heart, Inside This House by zzegnas

Niall recovers from his knee injury in the comforts of the English countryside with his two best friends, Harry and Liam.

amour doux by bisousniall

Niall runs an authentic French bakery in London, and he swears he hired Zayn for the extra help, not just for his looks. Also his employee Louis is harbouring a huge crush on their customer, Liam. Harry is there to keep them all together.

Eat Your Heart Out, Gertrude Stein by skullage

Zayn doesn’t have a watch any more; he measures time in distance. How long it’s been since he made Niall laugh, how far apart they were when they said goodnight. How many pieces he could put between his room and Niall’s, how many hours, minutes, seconds since Niall said his name.

Compass Rose by eiqhties

“We’re like all the directions coming together, you know? Like a compass. What do they call them? Compass rose, that’s us.”

An AU in which One Direction are an indie rock band touring America. There's lots of open roads, cramped vans, and pining for the service stations in the UK. Oh, there's also a lot of pining for each other, too.

i was made for sunny days (i was made for you) by nicheinhischest

"Don't do dances," Niall repeats with a smile. "Don't do pool parties. What do you do, Zayn Malik?"

Zayn shrugs. "Play baseball. Date you."

swimming pools by pixies

au where everyone is home from college for the summer, and zayn has the summer he never expected. includes: college rivalries, southern accents, and lifeguards.

delivery entrance to narnia by irishmizzy, miss_bennie

"You okay?” Niall mouths. Zayn knows he’s mouthing it but he can hear it loud and clear, which is fucking weird. He blinks. His head hurts, right on the top where Liam had touched it, but all over, too.

(The one where Zayn gets superpowers.)

do you care if i stay? by justaboat

zayn and niall go on a road trip.

Beer and Band-aids by hotnuts

Niall shoves his numbing hands deeper inside the warmth of his hoodie, biting the cold back with chapped lips and shaking limbs. He hums to keep his anxiety at bay, small noises in the form of some drowned out Justin Bieber tune he hasn't been able to get out of his head since he left Ireland.

Or, that one ziall street au where Zayn is a misunderstood artist, Niall is the cute Irishman who shouldn't be walking around London at night and they fall in love with each other over a lot of alcohol, bruises and angst. Also Louis is a sassy pub-owner with a hipster boyfriend.

here i love you by myownremedy

Louis reckons Niall should just tell Zayn, reminds him that they live together in the tiniest, most overpriced apartment in all of New York and the walls are thin enough that Niall knows what Zayn sounds like when he’s getting off, and they never cook because their kitchen is so tiny, it’s basically a flat with two closets serving as bedrooms and an even smaller bathroom, and they are married, according to Louis, so Niall might as well make it official.

Niall and Zayn (and the rest of the gang) are students at NYU, and Niall and Zayn live together in an overpriced shoebox apartment in the Village. Also, Niall's been in love with Zayn since freshmen year.

I Will Give You the Moon (It’s the Least I Can Do) by TheMipstaz

5 times Niall thought Zayn was a werewolf + 1 time Zayn actually was

never felt like home (until i had you) by groundopenwide

“Missed you.”

Zayn’s voice is hushed, careful, as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to fully make the admission. Each syllable slurs together like he’s spinning molasses.

Niall shuffles his head down the pillow until he can kiss each of Zayn’s knuckles, just once. Zayn hums, the sound coming from far away. They fall asleep with their hands intertwined.

Or: Tour ends, and Niall goes home to Zayn.

follow the marks you left by littlecather

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, voice heavy. “Probably best if we … don’t tell them. For now.”

“For now,” Niall agrees. There’s too much promise in that, though. Niall’s not sure just yet if he can see a point in the future when he can tell them - that he went to see Zayn, without any of them knowing. That he kissed Zayn. That he’s going to see Zayn, again, to possibly do that, again.

Secret relationship; canon.

Soul Mechanism by alexenglish

When a chance encounter with a stubborn human manifested a magical bond within Zayn that had been dormant for decades, Zayn could not deny being intrigued; by the connection, and the boy, and what it meant for a demon such as him -- a demon who had been without a master for many years.

The universe always had a purpose, and meeting Niall was only the beginning.

(And you will always be someone who was beautiful, once.) by softly (alexenglish)

I will always love you, or anyway I will always have loved you now.

(Look at you.) by softly (alexenglish)

I do not believe in love at first sight. But god damn.

(Don’t worry. We’re all doomed eventually.) by softly (alexenglish)

I know your weakness. It’s kisses. You are doomed.

(no one could steer me right, but mama tried.) by softly (alexenglish)

You aren’t really a good person, but god damn, you make bad look awesome.

(Let’s join a street gang! Is NASA recruiting?) by softly (alexenglish)

This town isn’t big enough for the both of us. Let’s run away together!

Killing Time With You by flares

“People got together whenever they felt like it before they came up with the clocks.”

“Yeah, and now, like, no one does,” Zayn says. “Most people want to just date their soulmate, because what’s the point in wasting your time if it’s going to end, right?”

You'll Find What You're Missing In Between the Lines by flares

Niall: its weird to take a cat on the bus right ?

Don't Break Character by flares

It’s all a bit mortifying. Zayn wonders how he ended up being the one embarrassed in this situation.

For a Second There, We'd Won by flares

Zayn can’t stop looking at Niall’s fingernails, bitten down and red, and he wonders what had him so anxious. But he’s not in any place to ask anymore, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Looking for Astronauts by flares

He doesn’t have a crush on Zayn. Like, Niall really doesn’t. It would be stupid. They’re in space. They’re the crew of the first human mission to Mars, for fuck’s sake. Niall doesn’t have time for crushes.

Or he shouldn’t, at least. Logically.

Sipping on Something Sweet by flares

It’s ridiculous how careful he is, actually, and Zayn wants to laugh, if only because the alternative would be to cry. Maybe thinking he might break isn’t too far-fetched of a belief.

I'll Be Your Mirror by liquidmeasure

"I don’t want to talk about walking corpses and sisyphean tragedy. Let’s wander. Let’s eat!” He pulls Zayn forward, over the cobblestones, through the dark. “The city is being reborn around us and you’ve been holed up so far away from me for so many decades. I want to show you everything. I want to climb to the top of it and look down and dedicate it all to you.”

A Ziall Vampire Love AU for Halloween.

I've been wanting to write this since I watched Only Lovers Left Alive earlier this year, so if parts of it seem familiar, that's why. I basically took a Jim Jarmusch movie and made it about Ziall. Sue me! (Wait actually don't sue me. Please.)

All of Me by FallingLikeThis

Niall Horan is perfect.

Zayn came to this conclusion a long time ago. And the depths with which he believes it just grow more with each passing day.

[aion-rsa]

The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 5 Review: The 7 Beer Itch

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This The Simpsons review contains spoilers.

The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 5

It feels like weeks since Homer last tasted the sweet temptation of bitter fruit, but there’s lime in his cognac, and extramarital peril in the air on The Simpsons season 32, episode 5. “The 7 Beer Itch” is, hopefully, the season’s traditional flirt gone awry episode. The Simpsons, as a family, like to keep their options open when it comes to romance, but with every near event the show confirms what we all know. The only thing Homer really loves more than Marge is beer.

The title refers to the film The Seven Year Itch, which is about how marriage gets stale after about seven years, and people are more susceptible to outside influences. But by limiting the time frame to seven beers is unrealistic. Homer’s way ahead of them on that. This season has been very musical, and Groundskeeper Willie gets to warble the explanatory song. It’s a tale of two cities, London and Springfield. Willie is singing it for Nelson, which makes it slightly rueful, and he doesn’t accompany himself on bagpipes. Those he saves for a major beatdown in a British pub fight against some wankers who are all in love with the woman of his dreams.

Olivia Colman (The Favourite, Hot Fuzz), voices Lily, a woman so vivacious and magnetic, Willie uses forks and knives in her presence. Her mission is to make life fun. She’s the kind of grand dame who can turn Macbeth into a comedy. She plays cricket on pool tables. Lily is a minor sensation, but like the Beatles and balmy weather she was too hot for England, and is banished to America, or as Willie calls it, Britain’s penal colony. Scots really know how to breathe new life into old jokes. Willie even dangles his haggis as a punchline.

The trip to America sequence is filled with a barrage of effective one-liners, as it tells the story through quip. Lily causes emotional turbulence on the plane. She gets Leonardo DiCaprio, in an uncredited cameo, to admit he plays the same part in every movie before he pleads with her to marry him. She has the same siren effect wherever she goes. Men hold up signs reading “We can kill my wife together.”

The Simpsons always affords more visual gags than might meet the eye to each installment, and while previous seasons lagged on it, they have been making a comeback since last season. While on vacation with the kids to the vinelands, Marge reads a book called “What to Read When You’re Reading.” These little bits, like Sergio Aragonés drawings in Mad, are consistently effective humor enhancers on the show. They are a happy distraction, and the episodes are much more fulfilling with them.

An errant wind on a dart board, because all Brits settle life decisions with pub acts of fate, sends Lily to Springfield: “America’s least romantic city,” a line which works on its own, but is actually a set up for the punchline about it being where men have the lowest testosterone. The most effective jokes follow the rule of three, so by the time she sees the “Welcome to Springfield, we put the sit in obesity” sign, the entire trip is underscored by as much inferred humor as it is moved forward through the musical numbers.

“There are songs about drinking,” a bewildered and besotted Barney asks. This is enough for the whole gang at Moe’s to fully embrace the British invasion. They’re as happy as the “little Nazi kids in Sound of Music,” the revelers enthuse with a deliciously subversive twist. Lily even turns Moe’s frown upside down, actually it’s his whole head, and quite surprising how much better he looks. It is at this point the episode plays with format. None of the Simpsons have made an appearance yet. Groundskeeper Willie makes note of it, and informally addresses his own second-fiddle status as the featured Springfieldian. He is only a small part of the story he narrates, because, even though he still treasures the last letter from Lily reminding him to never come near her again, this is all about Homer.

Homer is a loner in this episode. He’s been left alone before, with some chaotically funny results. This is enough to convince the family to leave the pets, and Abe, in the Flanders’s care. This and the “no Homer” clause in the three-week vacation offer is enough to set Homer up for temptation. Meanwhile, back at the bar, Lily is singing a song which ends “drink it up and throw me down.” Hallelujah. The show gets in a jab at English cuisine, however, when she has to validate her cooking skills as post-’90s.

While Homer spends most of the episode brooding over his missing family, Mr. Burns finds Lily stirs feelings in him he hasn’t felt “since they took cocaine out of Coca-Cola.” He tasks Smithers with tasking Homer with asking Lily for a date on his yacht, “Gone Fission.” The show continues the charade of Smithers’ sexuality when Burns explains he couldn’t have his lacky ask the woman out for him because he couldn’t trust him to keep his “hands off the ladies.” Smithers gives the knowing rejoinder. “How well you know me, sir,” with an underplayed acquiescence. His straight-line composure goes completely against the tried and true buildup, and the grin he brings to it is the subtlest of oral delivery.

Burns, on the other hand, goes full on James Bond villain: He hires a small orchestra like he did when he kidnapped Tom Jones to woo Marge in an early season installment, evilly strokes a cat, and giggles and giggles. Every giggle more maniacally villainous than the last. When Lily makes not of it, he appreciatively says “She gets me,” which, again, is a fine twist on a known cliché. It’s all going less than swimmingly until Burns does his princess cake dance, singingly wonderfully like Gypsy Rose Lee, “and his cardiologist makes three.” It is a grand move, but an anticlimactic ending.

The transition feels like a shortcut even though Homer gets to say “I hear you and I almost understand you” to Lily, which makes up for it. That and his admission that he specializes in saving people from trouble he gets them into. The climax almost comes when Lily asks for a damn proper kiss. Even though he and Ned got married in Las Vegas a few seasons ago, Homer has always maintained himself at unsafe distances. But the one element this almost-incident is subliminal. Lily says he’ll see her in his dreams, and the suggestible Homer takes it to an extreme and surreal level. Although his first concern is his dreams are where he keeps all his stuff.

Homer is very suggestible. Listen to how he routinely repeats every succulent description of any food mentioned on the show. He is a Pavlovian poster boy, the way he drools at the mere mention of even an appetizer. This actually gives the moral battle some suspense. It’s The Simpsons, and while we know the dilemma probably won’t go in that direction, the series finds another inroad to conflict.

On the vacation, Bart gets sick, which leads him to give a good take to a forced joke. When Marge asks if he’d like to watch “Itchy and Scratchy,” he moans, “I am itchy and scratchy.” Between this, the cobblestone roads which are torturing Maggie in her stroller, and the high costs of tourist traps, Marge decides to come home early. For an animated series, The Simpsons does a good job at skirting a delicate situation confined to a home. The unspoken conflict culminates when Homer actually makes an excuse to take a cell call. From a marketer, no less. You know how sensitive they are. The whole scene is actually played down, which adds tension.

The seduction comes down to who can more appetizingly sing about pork chops. Whether kindness, children and a true soulmate overrules the Mary Poppins of the barfly crowd, or if the whole thing can be written off for the chance to watch hot dogs spin at a stand. Homer is not a complicated man, but he is a big one, filled with fried food and heartbreak. Homer makes amends, but he is blameless because he is clueless. This usually works for him, as his cluelessness is his one great superpower. It’s saved him from an unknown quantity of calamity.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

In the past, Homer was more self-conscious of the temptations. He really isn’t a witting partner tonight. He almost exhibits a thoughtful obstinacy, it takes so long to register. This robs the episode of friction, and tips the balance. It turns Lily into more of a predator than she needs to be, but it also makes it all the more predictable. “The 7 Beer Itch” is loaded with funny lines and sight gags, but it doesn’t cover up how many times they’ve given us this premise. They can dress it up with a British accent, but it offers a performus interruptus payoff.

The post The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 5 Review: The 7 Beer Itch appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[freechoicedreamer]

Body and Soul (Ch. 9)

AO3

Opening Theme

*

“The individual inwardly cultivated feelings of helplessness and loneliness, for he lost touch with his more human dimension, failed to broaden his virtues, and thus became unable to interact with the same essential aspects of other people. It is this process that he calls social alienation, hidden behind one's personas, yet capable of exerting a sinister impact on Humanity. At the same time that man advances materially, he moves further and further from other beings. Thus, the longed-for freedom becomes a frightening trap from which he tries to escape through the conquest of financial resources and the war for power, through absolute passivity towards authoritarianism, or through the path of social conformism. Thus, man can pretend to own something, or to own someone, for in this way he feels that he is not alone. The psychoanalyst believes that acceptance of the other and his inner treasure, the practice of solidarity and working together, the exercise of brotherhood and the institution of social comfort can offer humanity a viable way out of this tragic situation created by man himself.”

(based on Erich Fromm’s Fear of Freedom)

*

Enchanted Mountains, Arendelle

The saying ‘You are not alone’ has never been so well applied to what Killian, Emma, Key, Emm, Liam and Milah are experiencing. Nested in a warm and friendly environment, to where they headed after the early morning meeting, they prepare to cross the underground rivers in an atmosphere filled with Love.  

In fact, a large group is gathered in the still private hall of Arendelle's Shelter, at Elsa's palace, sharing knowledge and bringing emotional comfort to the six bearers of Light, Peace and Love in the upcoming fight: one grandmother - Ruth; six parents - Wish Snow, Wish David, Snow, David, Alice and Wish Brennan; three brothers - Senior, Junior and Neal; two sisters-in-law - Wish Regina and Wish Ariel; two sons - Henry and Wish Henry; three daughters-in-law - Cindy, Violet and Robyn, two daughters - Alice and Hope; one granddaughter - Lucy; and lots of friends with their closed ones - Elsa, Gideon, Anna, Kristoff, Ingrid, Merlin, Belle, Rumple, Nemo, Ursula, Archie, Lily, Aunt Em, Dorothy, Gepetto, Granny, Red, Wish Granny, Wish Red, Wish Mulan, Blue, Wish Blue and… Luna and Missy.

...

"This - the company of people pulsating and radiating the purest love energy - is the most powerful preparation and support you could receive, my dear," Wish Snow explains, combing her daughter's golden hair.

Wish David, watching them from a sofa, smiles, impacted by the scene. "We've been watching you Emma, we've been loving you from afar, but being here, so close to you, being able to touch you again… it's such a privilege and honor, my little love... and knowing that you are pregnant with twins  that just reminds me of my brother and I and… I-, oh Sweet Honey Pie, my dear Emma, this is so wonderful…  I-..." He barely holds a sob before Emm reaches out to hug him, also crying. Circling them with her arms, Wish Snow struggles hard to speak, "its alright to cry, Charming and Emma, especially you, Emma, because of the hormones! Look, here is the plan: we do this now, we cry, while they haven't been born yet and we have time to cry because soon you and Killian, on Earth, and your father and I, in Heaven, will only have time to look after the two precious treasures. Never forget, dear daughter, that we will always find a way to send our spiritual protection to all of you."

"Right, right, your Majesty, great plan - you are the Boss, my love," W. David composes himself before standing up to walk away, leaving them back to their mother-and-daughter moment.

...

As the hours advances, the rapport between everyone also progresses and so do the preparations for an event that nobody knows yet when will happen. "We will sense it," Aunt Em/Athena and W.Snow/Zeus keep repeating like a mantra, despite the anxiety felt by some. "Patience is a Virtue," explains Rumple, in vain, to Anna...

Mama Alice has taken both Emmas to a corner of the huge hall where they lie on large pillows on the floor to receive magnetic passes applied by the healing and regenerating magic of Apollo channeled by her. Snow and Wish Snow, encouraged by Alice, have joined her and are, under the Emissary's guidance, applying Reiki-like passes to their daughters. "The more the merrier," Alice explains to the two zealous mothers.

Relatively close to them, in another side room of the grand hall, Nemo, Merlin, Gideon and Liam work on both Killians' prosthesis so that their batteries will be able to recharge magically.

"After the battle, Little Brothers," Liam insists on teasing them but they decided to pretend they don't care - and deep down they don't, "I still want to work a little harder on these prosthesis - to make them even closer to the originals, you will feel, practically, as if your hands were back to where they should never have left..."

"The original hands have been preserved by magic, did you know that?" Gideon tells Liam. “One of them I already have in my lab, the other one I suppose is tucked away in Wish Rumple’s Castle, if you have time, take a look. "

"I will, I will... you know, having the original hands is much easier," Liam replies, excited about the possibility.

"You know Liam," Killian speaks thoughtfully, "as painful and hard as it has been, in perspective it may not be correct to say that our hands should not have been cut off. That's because losing them was instrumental in the narrative that brought us all here..."

"Aye," Key agrees. "And after so many centuries, so many Destiny crossroads, so much suffering, so many vows of vengeance and piracy precisely because of you and, later, because of our left hands and, most importantly, because of Milah, who would say, Older Brother, but here we are, witnessing the birth of love between you and Milah..." he winks at Killian and they both smile at how Liam blushes.

“We are truly happy for you both, Liam,” Killian then assures him patting his back.

“You have no idea how much,” Key confirms thoughtful. “After all, now we see, it was indeed Milah's fate to find true love with a Jones, it's sort of a poetical irony, a plot twist written by the Fates…”

“I hope you are right Killian, and… Key,” Liam blushes even more, struggling a bit to admit his feelings, “she is really special - you knew that already, and beautiful, and passionate and... I hope especially for her you are right, she deserves eternal happiness and that came to her after finding Peace with her two Baelfires. But let me tell you, the rest in peace concept does not imply that we won't evolve or that changes won't happen. Proving that, now there is this new development..." he sighs shyly, "she got close to a true love, that first time with you, but we all know how much it wasn't meant to be in the big picture. Now this time… though I must let you know that it's different, somehow, in comparison to when we fall in love on Earth...  That is, despite our temporary physical bodies we are just souls, spirits, Milah and I. Of course, the essence of Love, in other words, True Love, would happen for us, something meant to be, whenever or wherever dimensional plan we might be, therefore what is happening between us is really true in a deep sense. But as souls, for us, falling in love now is more… subtle, serene, it's a deep calmness though quite intense and elevated on its own.” He finally opens up and ends up laughing with his brothers in a more relaxed way.

Approaching them, Brennan, and the other Liams - Junior and Senior, complete the family team, as they continue with Gideon, Merlin and Nemo, to improve the  prosthesis mechanisms, now impregnated with magic.

"Hey Guys! I want to register this moment," Wish Ariel, self declared the photographer of the family,  gets close to the group, taking pictures of the Joneses Men.

"Love is in the air…" turning his head slightly to whisper, Brennan confides to Nemo who smiles back and nods.

…

As Aunt Em and Belle intended, right after lunch, with the empathy brought by the loving environment, everyone is already openly discussing the strategies for Day 6 - without even realizing it, a silent, tacit understanding has established that the fight between couples will take place within around 48 hours.

Hope circles from group to group, excitedly running with Missy in the huge hall where everyone is seated. Luna preferred to stay on Lucy's lap while she talks intently with her parents and Neal.

"We should ask for permission for Roland and Coralline to come here," Lucy argues, "because we were outlining an activity suggested by Aesop that could be attached to Em's orchestra alignment performance. We knew from the call for musicians in all realms that she planned to work on arranging a song and would do some online rehearsals, at first, with the selected musicians - mostly young adults. Then we thought and talked about that and… we believe that preteens and teens could contribute with an act created and performed by us. We have had a lot of ideas and inspirations... "

"Yes," Neal confirms, "and I'm feeling a lot of inspiration here in the Enchanted Mountains, as if my magic is being bred by an ancestral energy related to this place - I mean, something coming from the land that has been here for ages. That is, before Arendelle moved here bringing its own ancestral energy to add to the one that already existed, something impregnated in deeper roots... I really need to talk to Blue and Gideon about this feeling of mine."

"So let's talk to Em about the preteens and teens’ activities and to David about the permits," Cindy suggests.

"And Daddy," Lucy turns to Henry. "I think we need your help with the texts we were researching on our Shelter. During a quick visit that King Fergus gave us, he suggested that we rehearse a sort of jester on top of a text. And Aesop suggested we look for a text like a metaphor for what we're living in. But what we have done so far is getting too long, we need to define the narrative and summarize the story better..."

"I'm available to help you," Henry strokes his daughter's hair. "Perhaps the magic pen can help, it is inspiring for writing summaries of complex narratives."

…

At the end of Day 4, more Emissaries and friends have joined the party : summoned by Emm after having agreed to expand the Alignment Performance Program, Fergus, Aesop, Marian and Roland responded promptly, as well as Split Regina, Wish Robin and Coralline. In addition, at the requests of Gepetto and Roland - which resulted in an excellent contribution to the youth group - two members of the Arendelle Teens Shelter, August Pinocchio and Anastasia, also joined the creative group.

…

Having had dinner in the Shelter refectory, they are all back to their Hall, organized in eight working teams: The Savior; The Aligner; The Survivors; The Canals’ Crossing; The First Battle; The Castle Unlocking; The Army Arrival; The Final Battle.

Indifferent, in a direct sense, to all activities, throughout the day Hope, Luna, and Missy have taken several naps on the cushions, placed especially for them in a quieter corner of the Grand Hall, alternating their naps with being extremely alert and awake. Mainly from their dreams they witnessed the unfolding of a memorable day in diverse conversations...

...

"Emma," Marian got close to the trio formed by David, Snow and their daughter, "before Wish Snow comes to apply Zeus's passes on you - they will be important to enhance your lightning magic power - I want to offer you a piece of advice. Make maximum use of this friendly atmosphere surrounding you. As a Savior, you must work to internalize the feeling and energy of Family in a broad, all-encompassing sense: the Human Family where everyone is joined by the feeling of equality - equal rights and access to happiness, which explains your deep sense of Justice. Human Fraternity is the basis of your power as a Savior, my dear…"

...

"Henry," Hope called her brother. "Yeah, my little sister?" Henry bent to become at eye level with her.

"Watch your Pen!!" She smiled, enigmatic, already running away.

"What the hell?!" Henry asked, but soon got his answer, in the form of a fresh new riddle:

"Through the Elders' drums, Freedom. Through the Youngers' dreams, Legend. Through the Moon, Wolf. Through the Eyes, Soul."

Smiling, Henry closed the book, searching for his daughter and her friends . Wish Red and Red, wearing their magic hoods but sensing the energies under their skins, also joined them.

…

"Father, Mother," Gideon and Elsa approached Rumple and Belle already blushing before starting to speak. "You know that what Elsa and I are living is new but we feel it is true as in… a true love. So it is forever and, then… we wanted your formal blessing for our union before you go back to the Elysium Fields and…"

"We have just talked to my aunt, Ingrid, and she loved the idea," Elsa explained, also blushing. "We still need to figure out our living arrangements, even so our castles are relatively close but we have our duties and, you know how these things are, don't you?"

Smiling at their display of shyness, Belle smiled warmly with affection. "You two are so cute!! Of course  we will bless you. Hopefully everything will happen as we believe they will but we have a war to win first. Let's focus on that!"

"Gideon, you mother is representing the god of War!! Would you be able to imagine greater irony than that?" And with Rumple's joke they all relaxed and ended up in a family hug .

…

"Killians," Emma called her pirate and his twin.

"Aye, Swan."

"Archie has just made contact- he and Zorro are temporarily in charge of the Teleport Center, by the way, because Chynna and the Dragons are in a field trial experiment for capturing invasive souls. So, he  wanted to notify that five elders, Shamans according to them, from the Land without Magic, have just arrived at the Dragons' Castle declaring they came to the United Realms after receiving a call for help from Mother Earth. Ah! They teleported themselves using their own magic and seem to be speaking the truth. Archie explained that he doesn't have any technical means for detecting a glamour spell or any other kind of magic trick, but he is good on human psyche and for him the five men are being honest. They know about the Aligner existence, apparently, because they asked about her whereabouts. Then, Archie has asked permission for giving them Arendelle's coordinates - they don't need assistance with the teleport."

"That's intriguing… Have you talked to your father, love?"

"Not yet, he is busy in a call to Agrabah but we have autonomy to decide..."

"I think we should grant them the free pass because here we have plenty of people able to detect any magic trick... you said they call themselves Shamans, don't you?  I suspect they are coming for the Alignment Ceremony," Key proposed, already looking for his wife."

...

"I'm not an expert, this is more an Alice's - perhaps also Ruth's - thing," Ingrid explained to Anna and Kristoff as she touched Anna's belly, "but I'm sensing a little boy on the way…" she smiled at the joy in the new parents to be faces.

"A boy!!" Kristoff exclaimed in awe.

And the strong blond man lifted Anna's apparently fragile body and spun her around at the sound of her giggles. Suddenly realizing she was pregnant, he stopped her in the air and immediately set her back down with the care of the one who carries the most fragile Chinese porcelain.

'I'm still myself, Kris," she composed herself, smiling, "I won't break..."

Merlin neared Anna and Kristoff's celebration exchanging glances with Ingrid, as if talking telepathically with her. "Love will always be victorious, my friend," Ingrid comforted him and, excusing themselves with Anna and Kristoff,  the two walked away, continuing their silent conversation, arm in arm, leaving the young couple dreaming, enraptured by the prospect of parenting .

In the middle of their conversation, David and Milah approached Ingrid and Merlin with a message to Merlin sent by Lancelot, who was in charge of the Security in the prison where the revived clones were being kept. It all happened discreetly and quickly. Without alarming, with acknowledgment of just a few people and Emissaries, Merlin and Milah went away in two secret missions, promising to be back as soon as possible.

...

"She is very excited about the theoretical advances that Gideon has made after Rumple and Belle showed him where they kept his notes and her books with  studies on the separation body-soul." Split Regina and Wish Robin shared the news about Regina with Henry, Cindy and Wish Regina.

"When did you visit her?" Cindy asked.

"Today, right after lunch," W. Robin replied. "The doctor, Whale, has promised to discharge her tomorrow morning, "just one more night at the hospital," he said, "because I value my sanity and this woman will still drive me insane from insisting about going back to work!""

"Typical of my mom and you..." Henry whispered, smiling tenderly at Split Regina. "Cindy, she should stay with us, we'll find a way to host her. In both houses - ours and hers - there's a working shelter, but she needs us..."

"Sure, the rooms in the house are being used but our closet is so large that it can very well accommodate a single bed, a bedside table and a small desk without taking away our privacy, and our clothes can be stored in suitcases," Cindy agreed already thinking on practicalities, "it's better she stays with us even by the proximity to the hospital. I imagine Whale will want her heart to be returned  to her chest there... not to mention that I have a feeling Operation B&S is about to be completed soon."

"With total success, I hope, Split Regina wished, looking at  her daughter laughing with her friends.. .

…

"And what are the two Captains Charming laughing about?" Liam and Milah, she already back from her mission, asked, approaching Killian, David, Key, and W. David.

"Nothing in particular," David replied, "just remembering some of the adventures Killian and I have lived together, such as the time we followed a spell recipe!"

"Join us," Key invited them showing the rum flask."We have rum and room for two more!"

…

"After W. Blue presented Fa with a magic wand whose sole power is to transform Jiminy back into human form and then back into cricket, the two became impossible!" W. Red revealed.

"Damn you, they didn't tell us anything..." Granny commented to W. Granny and Gepetto.

"Ah…" W. Mulan smiled, "deep down they are shy. But watching them sunbathing on the porch with their eyes closed and holding hands as they sway on the porch swing is like looking at a beautiful painting…"

...

From the center of the circle, Emm, Fergus and Aesop instructed the attentive audience comprising Lucy, Neal, young Alice, Robyn, August, Anastasia, Wish Henry, Violet, Red and Wish Red about the rehearsals of which they will take part in the next day.

…

"Killian, Key," W. Snow approached them, seizing their chance to be alone. "This is me, speaking as a mother, but also in the name of Zeus. It will be your nature, as Survivors... Poseidon, through Rumple, can explain to you in more detail how that works - talk to him about it later, if you feel the need of a better understanding of technatilities - but as I was saying, it will be up to you to survive and protect your wives. Yours is the defensive magic. Your wives have the more offensive magic, especially the Savior. The Aligner will stay behind because that's the natural order of their powers: one ensures Happy Endings/Beginnings and the other ensures Happy Livings. I have applied special magnetic passes to both which enhanced their lightning strikes - combined, acting together, they may be able to disintegrate souls just like Zeus' Crystal used to do. And Key, don't worry, the babies are totally safe and protected, surrounded by special spells. Your mother, and Apollo, have already made sure of that. So... you both will ensure that your Emmas survive the attacks that they will suffer."

"I see, but… Now, you try to see from our angle. We are practical beings, you know," Key argued and turned to Killian, "and as our mother uses to say, ours is a Mathematician's mind. But we are also experienced captains. That means that despite being able to dig into conceptual abstractions, we need to know how the concrete applications they are meant for will be implemented…"

"Exactly, precisely. In other precise and exact words,  what do we have to do, more specifically? Please?" Killian then asked exasperated.

"Always stay close to them. Your power lies in your intuition and it only manifests with full intensity in the Present. Therefore, neither Zeus nor any oracle is so powerful to anticipate your action. But know that you will know what to do, acting in perfect timing - this our Oracles have foreseen."

Both Killians nodded, circumspect.

...

At the end of the long day Elsa offered the palace for all to spend the night and they thought it would be good to accept the offer, remaining united for more hours in that same place - "it will resemble a large camping area" , someone remembered. They were deciding where to spread more pillows and blankets across the floor when Midas/Morpheus and Farah/Demeter arrived sharing the news: they had sensed, in the Dream Realm and in the Vegetable Realm, the vibrations of  strongly dark activities coming from not too far from where they are. Probably from Wish Rumple’s castle.

“We suspect that the four villains have already managed to break the connection between Wish Pan and Wish Cruella and their clones, which allowed the souls of Pan and Cruella to incarnate in the clones,” Midas tells them, “which would be the only reasonable way to explain the extremely intense and unusual vibrations of highly distorted and perverted activities identified by Morpheus and his two brothers affecting and interfering in the Dreams Realm - with potential for disturbing everybody's sleep tonight, besides creating a negative vibration for the Animals, Vegetables and Mineral Kingdoms.”

"That makes sense, for them managing to break the connection" Rumple mumbles, "all they had to do was to find in Wish Rumple's castle the notes and books similar to mine and Belle's and develop their technique based on them."

“Well then, our response to that must be with stronger and more intense activities of Light, Peace and Love,” Ingrid says, discreetly winking at Ruth but her gesture did not escape the attentive gossip supporters (as Henry had labeled them) Killian, Key, David and Cindy. Immediately after, Ingrid asks Elsa to call the string quartet musicians that, as Elsa and Emm had told her earlier that day, were housed in the palace’s shelter.

…

Short after Ingrid's suggestion…

“Mommy, Daddy,” Hope, waking up from another nap, calls her parents, “I was with Luna and Missy flying over there, in the sky, and they asked to tell you that when the North Wind blows wide… no, that was not what they said, please, help me Daddy, It was not 'wide', so then what…?”

“Hmm... Would be wildly, my little pirate?” Killian tries to guess.

“Aye! that, Papa! when the North Wind blows wildly and the snow falls, then you, Mama, Uncle Key, Aunt Emm, Uncle Liam and Aunt Milah must go.”

“Very well", Rumple, approaches Hope turning to everyone watching the little girl while winking at her - she giggles.

“We have our clue, Dearies.” Many of those present stop what they were doing and look surprised after hearing the peculiar pronoun, once favored by the former Dark One. Rumple smiles sideways, pleased by the intended effect, that is, to draw everyone's attention. “Listen carefully, everyone, we know what we have to do, and right now, what we have to do is relax and… dance!” He then signalizes a command for the string quartet, already positioned high in the balcony, to play...

As the music sounds in the grand hall, everybody - old couples, new couples, old dancers, young dancers, in pairs, in a solo - start to waltz, lulled by the harmonic and smooth vibrations. Blue and Wish Blue, morphing into little fairies, flutter around spreading pixie dust, and even Hope, Missy and Luna flutter giggling, barking and meowing through the air, spreading their happiness - it's not known if Luna and Missy are flying by their own magic or by Hope's magic, but the fact is that the Light, Love and Peace emanating from the hall with all dancers and couples who, as the song advances, play of switching pairs in a choreography marked by grace and lightness, neutralize and overcome the negative effects generated by the two diabolic couples mating wildly nearby, at Wish Rumple’s Castle.

Enchanted Forest, Wish Evil Queen's Castle

While the main leaders were gathered in Arendelle, in one of the many fortresses isolated for hosting hibernating clones - 50 thousands in this case - the Shelter Guardians, Will Scarlet and his wife, Norah, spent the morning hearing weird noises and feeling goosebumps - despite the heating from all fireplaces and their bodies' isolation provided by the rubber clothes.

"Might be those Souls that crossed the path to Earth. I bet that, somehow, the shelter isolation had holes and they got in through them. Time to ask for help, Will, try to contact the Dragon…"

"Why him in particular, Norah?"

"Oir bha e gu math coibhneil nuair a bha e an seo agus a ’tabhann cuideachadh nam biodh feum againn air rud sam bith…"

(*Because he was very kind when he came here and offered help if we needed something…)

"Norah, chan eil e gu feum a bhith a ’bruidhinn mu dheidhinn Albannaich Gàidhlig - ma tha na fuaimean sin air an adhbhrachadh le taibhsean chan e an iomlaid cànain a chuireas an t-eagal orra."

(*Norah, it's no use talking in Gaelic scots - if these noises are really caused by ghosts it won't be the language change that will scare them off.)

"Alright, alright, but call him, please, Will."

"That I'll do, then, luv…"

"I love you, Husband!" Norah sends him a kiss through her veil.

…

"What is that?" Asks Will to Maleficent, who flew there with Jiao-long, Chynna and Lily (leaving Zorro and Archie in charge of the Teleport Center) upon receiving Norah and Will's call for help .

"A device, kind of a magic trap developed by Chynna under her father's supervision as soon as the news regarding the souls invasions were confirmed. It hasn't been tested yet - so we are not sure about its efficacy. I'll skip the more technical details but It requires three dragons - flying counter clockwise in a circle holding these sonars emitting a frequency out of your spectral hearing range, and three people on the ground, holding the magic traps."

"So you need our help at ground level," Will realizes.

"Exactly, and that's why Chynna came with us, to complete the triangle. If these devices work as expected, every time we need to use them we will have to make sure that there are at least three people available to operate the traps. And I guess we will need to use them a lot,  given the number… they said that thousands of souls had escaped, remember?"

…

"Hold on tight! Whatever happens, don't undo the triangulation down there, open the lid of the box when we get to the top and only close it when we land back!!" Jiao-long shouts at Will, Chynna and Norah, positioned outside the castle in a triangle-shaped formation, as he Mal and Lily, already morphed into dragons, begin a low-flying spiraling upward to the tips of the castle spears, with the sonars slung around their necks.

...

"What is going on here?" Milah asks Norah, getting out of a ray of light and intending to enter the castle.

"We're trying to trap the rebel souls that managed to enter the castle!" Chynna shouted, from one of the other three vertices, high enough to be heard by Milah.

"Oh, I see…" Milah/Persephone answers, looking at the three dragons in flight and figuring out their experiment.

Shouting back she lets them know that she will enter with two people, about to  arrive from Agrabah - "don't worry, we will be properly protected to avoid skin contact with the clones."

She then explained that they would use a locating spell to find a specific clone but promised to work without disturbing their soul-trapping experiment. Next, she contacted Charom telepathically, asking him to hold on at the banks of the Styx and wait, with the soul he was about to bring to Earth, until receiving her green signal to continue.

…

Running in parallel and without any major unforeseen events, both operations ended successfully. Taking advantage of Charom's arrival, Milah managed to coordinate with him and the Dragons a third operation: the return of all souls (captured by the new devices just tested and approved for use wherever necessary) to the Underworld, where Persephone and Arthur would make sure to keep them locked as prisoners.

Finally, with Jiao-long's help, the localized clone was carefully transported to Gideon's lab, along with the two travelers that came  from Agrabah. The two urns, brought by Charom, were taken there by Milah, Merlin and his companions: gradually, everyone and everything getting ready for next day's "experiments"...

Storybrooke, Tremaine-Mills home

Dawn brought with it the need for changes, including the move of those who were gathered in Arendelle to their next destinations: united by the common goal but aware of the diversity of positioning and strategic actions. So after saying goodbye to Lucy and her friends, who followed Emm, Fergus, Aesop, Wish Red, Red, the five shamans and several musicians of all realms to Westside Storybrooke, Henry Mills and Cinderella Tremaine returned home from where they would await Regina's arrival.

Sitting in front of his laptop, Henry updates his diary, registering random thoughts he might use later in his new book, while Cindy, by his side, coordinates permits to transport a lot of people to Westside Storybrooke.

Henry Mills' Personal Log

"Day 5 of the Emissaries on Earth

We are waiting for her return from the hospital, my mother… the one who raised me in this same house where I live with my wife and daughter, this same house created by her, then, dark magic, fruit of her own particular mess. And despite her messy mind, then, she managed to love me and raise me well perhaps because of what happened out of the bubble, where she tried so hard to keep me in, got out of her tight control and triggered what has always been meant to be...

From the perspective of Time, today I can understand how my True Believer nature played a leading role in my peculiar childhood - it saved me, ensured my sanity. When everything seemed confusing because the references around me were subjected to a Frozen Time and did not provide the support expected from a 'reference' supposed to guide the physical, psychological and emotional growth I was experiencing, my True Believer's nature came in my help and rescued me. Somehow I believed, somehow I knew that sooner or later it would all make sense, that I would have to wait and, when necessary, act. I was not able to rationalize this way, but I sensed deep down that there was a higher mechanism in motion, that the gears of Time were moving even when apparently broken (to everyone in Storybrooke except me), stopped by a dark curse that I wasn't, then, aware of.

Emotional references were the most confusing, on second thought, because despite living fake biographies and characters, the cursed people surrounding me, involuntary actors in a forced role-play where their true identity was subtracted - except for my mother, of course - preserved in some sleeping corner of their mind and heart the essence of what they never ceased to be. The most ironic thing was that I relived the story with shifted roles where my Lucy, another True Believer, was the one aware of a parallel reality subtracting our true lives - except for the two Belfrays and Goethel, initially. My grandpa Rumple was always quick to 'awake' from the curses, though...

But back to my childhood, my step mother, Regina, did love me in the best way she could, I knew she cared about me and, sometimes, with display of tenderness, but she was not an adept of affectionate words - I came to know them when I got old enough to go to School and attended Mary Margareth's classes: that was when the gears really started to incipiently be prepared to move. With her I learned to use the emotional language as a way of expressing feelings and emotions, as well as being a channel of connection with other people. I learned that, on many occasions, to understand each other in interpersonal relationships is sufficient an expression of affection, emotional, feeling or, in other words, showing what we have inside. My grandmother introduced me to the world of affections and to The Book… "

"Have you listened to any word of my question?"  Cindy smiles at him.

"Ah!? Oh, no… Sorry… I was too concentrated. Could you repeat it, please?"

"I asked at what time the Ceremony will start. People are asking..."

"Ah… I'm not sure and I guess nobody is, yet. I know I will join the rehearsals, taking the two Grannys with me, after lunch. I guess it will be around 9:00 pm. From a technical point of view, Nemo and the Dragon need the whole day to instal special repeaters in the telecom towers, replacing the ones in operation throughout the entire United Realms and also distribute new big screens in all shelters. For this task, helping Lily and Mal, Phileas Fogg and Passepartout will provide aerial support piloting their two airships, while Killian and Key will provide maritime and river support piloting their two Jolly Rogers. Not to mention that Red and W. Red will need the whole day to gather their pack and only then they will define their best timing - they need a specific Full Moon timing. And, of course, the artists and production staff will need hours of rehearsal…"

"Oh, I see, I will answer with a generic around 9:00pm  then. Thanks, my love, go back to your log..."

"You're always welcome, Honey."

…

Sighing slowly, Henry reads the last paragraphs before continuing...

"Deep down, when she was alone with me at home, my mother expressed her affection behind her façade, her persona, her Storybrooke Mayor profile, hiding her other persona, her Evil Queen mask. That is, if we define affection as all expressions that show the other how we feel when we are together, but also far away, or the desires we have for that other - she showed that to me.

However, no doubt that as a kid I have not been taught by her to communicate this way, because often she did not use this affective communication - as if she did not consider it important, even though it is actually fundamental to human relationships.

After the curse was broken, along the years that followed it, my mother and I perfected the use of affectionate words in our relationships that are full of feeling, soul, desire, content and meaning. Robin Hood represents in my mom's life the moment she really started to overcome her difficulty of expressing affection. He was her professor of showing also with words, putting out what she felt, making their relationship different and special. Her change after him was remarkable, I know she found it difficult, weird, ridiculous and even unusual to do so, because she often learned with her mother not to show what she had inside and to hide her feelings because she thought this would be a sign of weakness…

My Mom, Regina, is still healing from her traumas and difficulties based on a misconception of emotional hardness and a lack of emotional upbringing through which she should have taken the basis for teaching me to express my affections and to manage my emotions. I was lucky in finding my other Mom, Emma. I was lucky in rescuing my true origin - that prevented me from knowing the pain for not expressing myself.

By one side, my upbringing based on wrong beliefs kept screaming in my mind that by being insensitive and ignoring my feelings I would be less exposed to the pain and suffering that they can cause us. But on the other side, Emma Swan taught me the contrary (not always voluntarily), especially when she blocked her emotions and raised her defensensive mechanisms and walls. With her I learned that human reality is quite different, for pain is precisely what we feel when we do not express what we feel or when it is not communicated to us. With her I learned the power of affectionate words and we broke the first dark curse because of that. If I were taught to use affectionate words from early childhood, I would have known earlier how powerful they are, both by hearing and uttering them. They have the power to show our inner self and to bond with the inner self of the other."

Closing and opening his eyes, Henry turns to his wife, his Cinderella, with an urge to express the wave of love he felt for her, all of a sudden.

“I want you well, my wife, mother of my daughter... In fact, I love you dearly, Ella. Have I told you, today, that I feel special when I'm with you? Then, know that I'm happy by your side and that… you are the most special person I know!!"

Smiling her brightest smile, Cindy responds with a curious "what is going on, Henry Daniel Mills?" while reaching out to kiss him passionately.

"Hmm…" he answers savoring their hot kisses, "I felt an urge to express my feelings for you with words. Want to try this same exercise? Tell back what you are feeling…"

After thinking, foreheads touching, she replies with a smile, "okay… I feel good when you hear me."

"Well, I feel important when I hear you," he gives her back.

“Henry, I am at peace when I am near you...”

“I want to continue with you...”

“I always want to be able to count on you...”

“I want the best for you...”

"I want to hug you..."

"I feel loved by you...”

“I feel spoiled and… I think I've heard your phone, Henry, must be Whale.”

...

Regina is already settled in her improvised room, watching from her bed Henry and Cindy sharing a desk, both working on their laptops. "Updating your log, Henry?" She asks him with interest.

"Yeah… more a bit of musing rather than entering new data." He answers. "I was wondering about the power of healing coming from the power of affectionate words…"

"Ah, that, I like the sound of that: affection. I have thought a lot about this theme, lately… When we express our affection, we release emotions that sometimes overwhelm or block those who do not express them. If I only have known that earlier…" she sighs thoughtfully.

"Mom, loving words heal and unite those who use them, releasing the painful emotions and feelings that were at the root of silent suffering. Therefore, I want, I need you to know that I love you."

"We all love you, Regina." Cindy reinforces Henry's declaration, as they stand up, heading to Regina's corner for hugging her affectionately.

Enchanted Mountains, Gideon's Castle

Fortunately, the night passed in relative quiet, especially after Farah and Jasmine arrived in the private wing of Gideon's Castle. Only with their arrival did Aladdin finally breathe a sigh of relief since he could see with his own eyes that his beloved was indeed more flushed and restored from the sickness due to her pregnancy. His mother-in-law indeed took on the responsibility of treating her daughter with mysterious teas made from the herb mix that only she knew. "Trust me," Farah had told him, but even then his worry was inevitable.

Despite the relief, the major concern shared with Lancelot, which kept him company at night watch, remained. Few things scare Aladdin - a fearless man with self-esteem regained after healing from his guilt for cutting his fate as a Savior. But spending the night making sure that the two urns, brought by Milah,  containing two newcomer souls from the Underworld remained closed and untouched was too much. "Worse than being careful not to let a genius escape his lamp," he spent the night thinking.

To further increase insomnia, the presence of two prisoners, Wish Felix, whom he brought, and a cloned Sherazade, brought by David, Lancelot and Merlin, was more than too much. Particularly, the fake Sherazade, sedated under the effect of a soothing pass applied by Merlin, was the last straw to spill over the glass of courage. The knowledge of Nimue's presence, though anesthetized, was too disturbing for the alert minds of Lancelot, Guinevere (who arrived later to sympathize with her husband), Aladdin and Jasmine.

"The real Sherazade would entertain us by telling stories…" Jasmine whined, missing her cousin and best friend.

Despite the worry, Guinevere and Jasmine managed to relax and sleep because, fortunately, Farah stayed with them after going briefly to Arendelle to bring Midas with her for the nocturne vigil. Alternating their night watch with little naps, the others remained alert ("they have magic power, that counts...", Aladdin assured himself thinking about the two Emissaries).

…

Gideon and Belle arrive first - it is still dark in the late October morning, and are immediately greeted by all night watchers, already having breakfast.

"Where are the others?" An anxious Aladdin asks.

“They are coming soon,” Belle answers.

"I told him there was no need to worry so much, I asked him to relax ," Farah explains to Belle telepathically, "but he didn’t listen. I'm learning to never ask to relax, straight away, someone that is in such a state of nerves…" she chuckles.

"I see you…" Aladdin quickly reacts with a smart remark to Belle and Farah. "You are talking about me, aren't you? I know you are…"

"He's smart." Belle notices.

"Very much, a good observer." Farah agrees. "No wonder my daughter fell in love with him: good heart, great mind…"

"Still gossiping about me, I see." Aladdin complains with a pout and Jasmine laughs.

Turning to Lancelot and the others, Belle finally explains, "Rumple is coming soon, he made a detour in Storybrooke, a quick visit to old friends of us… And I think that Merlin, Milah, Ruth, Alice and W. Snow will follow him with negligible delay."

"Where are you keeping the clones?" Belle asks Gideon, looking around in her son's Lab.

"Over there," he points to two narrow beds in the right corner near which another ray of light shines, bringing Ruth and Merlin.

"Good morning, everyone," she says with a calm smile, already sensing the atmosphere and sending soothing waves towards Aladdin's direction.

…

Rumple arrived soon after and they have already started to assemble the setup for running the first series of trials: the one for simultaneously breaking the connection between Wish Felix and his clone, thus allowing Felix's soul to incarnate in the liberated clone.

"The procedure to be followed is completely described in my old notebook, probably the same used by Wish Pan and Wish Cruella with their own clones," Rumple explains. "We must follow it carefully or the original, Wish Felix, will die. We just need to wait for Milah, we need her help in dealing with Felix's soul..."

"Wait no more," says Milah coming with Wish Snow out of another ray. "Let's do it! Where is the urn containing the first soul?”

"Here," Belle passes the urn to her.

…

Wish Felix and Felix are both awake, but still groggy. The experiment was successful and they are under Alice's, who arrived later, and Ruth's care.  

"Are you done with us? No more exams? Now what?" Felix questions them with a mix of perplexity and insecurity.

"You are both in healthy - both physical and psychological - conditions. We are done with the exams," Alice tells them. "Now you wait, as everyone else, to meet those two old friends of yours. That will happen tomorrow."

"As soon as my son, Liam, with the help of his wife, Milah, manages to break the protection spell that is keeping those Pans, friends of these Felixes, from being reachable," Alice completes in thought.

"Wife, hein?" Ruth giggles, telepathically.

"Let's be practical and name correctly what they are to each other, my dear… You see, they were meant to be anyway but, between you and me, you and Ingrid gave them a little help, didn't you? Or better rephrasing, your divine patrons gave them a little push, haven't they?"

"I won't say no to that…" Ruth smiles.

"Now I'll call my granddaughter. Her wife, Robyn, and her brother-in-law, Roland, are with her in Storybrooke, rehearsing for tonight's ceremony, but they were eager to know the result of this operation - Robin Hood's resurrection depends on it."

"It still depends on breaking the connection with Regina's heart, don't raise their expectations too much ," Ruth advises.

"I won't, they are aware of the other risks but deserve to hear these good news… They know that walking requires one step after the other."

…

The preparations for the second and most challenging trial, since they developed the procedure based only on old books of Belle’s collection, are in progress. Meanwhile, in a small room adjacent to the lab, Merlin and Sherazade, aka Nimue, talk in private.

"Want to know what really moved me and made me give up until screaming and begging to Lancelot for allowing me to talk to you again, Merlin? I'll tell you if you explain to me what you have done to regain your physical body. No trick, just curious."

"It’s simple. Actually, my physical body is temporary, soon I'll be less dense again and will be back to my ethereal - and eternal  - subtle body; a soul is what I am, Nimue."

"I see… I will tell you, then, as promised, the truth. When I called you, in prison, you submitted me to a lie detection test and you came to the conclusion that I was really giving up, I really wanted to get out of this body. This body is my real prison, not the cell you locked me in. Sherazade's body is a healthy body - she was a pretty woman, still is, I guess. But I don't fit in it, I don't feel it as I expected. Hell, I can even touch it, trying to pleasure myself but… I feel nothing. I’m not a block of ice, though, something inside me, a residual memory that never left me, still feels and misses what I've been longing for ages. Perhaps, the coldness is blocked by something that belonged to her, I’m not sure, I’ve been dead for so long… But I never forgot the feeling... Ever.

For centuries, as a Dark One, the first in a long lineage of Dark Ones, I've been trying to feel again what I miss so much, what I’ve been longing for, but it never happened. All the power that my dark magic gave me has never been able to make me feel it again. I remember the feeling, though, the memory remains. In my secular life I had so many lovers, I took part of so many orgies and, of course, I did feel a temporary pleasure, a physical orgasm, but something was always lacking… after each orgasm what came was always an emptiness, a void and like in addition, I wanted more, I always searched for another dose of the drug…

I thought that coming back to the physical world would change things. I’ve tried before, coming back, I mean. You know, when I used Dark Hook to kill you - you Merlin, the only man I truly loved.  And still do. There... there I said it. I love you. And I have, for millenniums, tried to feel again: to love and to be loved in the way we used to love each other... You have always been my true love and I hated you so much because of that. I hated you because you knew I would kill you, through Hook, and made it easier for me by starting to prepare the Dark course knowing that the final ingredient would be your own heart..."

"It was our Destiny, Nimue, I've never challenged the Fates."

'I know. I paid the price for learning the unfolding of your 'bits and pieces' of forsightings. But that happened so long ago, there is no way back for me now.

The fact is that I would do anything to get back to a living body again. I wanted to be able to get back to what I had with you. Perhaps things could be different if I inhabited a kind of Wish Nimue's clone, a kind of my own clone twice. I guess that would be better, maybe that would work. But in Sherazade’s body it is not working, not at all. Especially after you visited me in prison…

I know I’ll be sent back to Hell, to Tartarus, I’m aware of the consequences of what I’ve done. I’ve been too much in the dark side to nourish any kind of hope. I don’t hope. At all, but as I told you, I don’t care to be treated as a traitor by the other rebels, I don’t mind their judgment. Everything will be better than to live in this body.”

Someone knocks at the door but Merlin already knows who is there:  Wish Snow, channeling Zeus.

Asking telepathically for one minute more, Merlin looks into Nimue’s eyes. "It's time to go, Nimue. You have been for so long in the Dark side that for your soul there wouldn't be salvation anymore. But as they say, the most powerful magic that exists is Love. So, I ask you to never lose Hope. I know you need punishment, but you must know that there is no meaning for a punishment if it is not used as an instrument for redemption. Once upon a time you were not corrupted, once upon a time, your soul was not dark. Don’t lose hope, my love. You will rest for a while, maybe centuries, in the same urn that brought today another soul from the Underworld. You will be put under a kind of sleeping therapy and won’t suffer. You will undergo a long, very long therapy, but you will heal. The Nimue I knew and came to love still exists underneath the darkness that corrupted her soul, you have just proved that she is still there. Now, come with me.”

Standing up, Nimue takes his hand once more, and walks with him to the lab. “And to think that it all started because of a water goblet. It all started because I wanted to be immortal, just like you were, I wanted to drink a sacred water…” she smiles sadly.

Storybrooke, Brothers' Village

Leroy, as he prefers to be called, and W. Grumpy (“or simply Grumpy since my twin denied the name that registered our fight for love, humpf") got permission to marry Nova and Wish Nova shortly after the creation of the United Realms. Blue and Wish Blue finally agreed to allow the fairies, if they so desire, to date and relate sexually to whom and as they please without losing their magical powers - and their wings. With the weddings, and the move of the Wish dwarfs to Storybrooke, the 14 brothers built a village near the docks with 18 terrace houses. Three of the four extra houses were occupied by the sailors Smee, Wish Smee, and Kevin Smith and his wife, Laura, leaving only one empty house - “for our collective meals and meetings or eventual guests…”

…

"Could you please repeat - again - the riddle…?" Doc asks his twin, W. Doc, at the large breakfast table in the guest house.

"Okay, here I go again! Life is a grain of wheat who dies to be born as bread - from pixie dust we come, to pixie dust we will return ," W. Doc says what Henry's pen has written, the best and only clue they have, so far, that confirmed that their Pixie Dust mines are indeed the place for them to search for the Earth end in the Magic Fountain connection.

"The riddle reminds me," Smee speaks, "that I was going to have another slice of cheese and that, of course, requires more bread. So," and then he turns to Sleepy with a grin to ask mischievously, "could you be kind enough to pass the bread, please?"

"Once a mouse…" Leroy mumbles to be heard only by Nova, who discreetly kicks his legs from below the table.

"Everybody fixated on the Pixie Dust part..." Kevin wanders, "but have you ever thought that maybe the missing secret information concerns wheat and bread?"

"Yes ..." W. Nova agrees, "this part is still mysterious to me..."

“I think….” W. Happy smiles, “that I get it: Life is a grain of wheat means the seed of Life…”

��Yeah…” W. Sleepy agrees, dreamily, “and then, when the grain is born it becomes wheat!”

Dopey, then, stands up and throws himself on the ground, mimicking someone dying.

“I get it,” W. Bashful explains, “to become bread… the wheat has to dye, then it will live again as a bread.”

“A delicious one, by the way,” W. Smee speaks with a full mouth, winking at them, and making all laugh.

“The circles of Life are eternal - that is the meaning of the riddle,” Kevin concludes.

“Nova,” Sneezy turns to his sister-in-law to ask, “what exactly makes - or used to make, the gods immortal?”

“You see,” she answers, “according to one of the most ancient perceptions, immortality was granted by eating a specific nutriment. The food of immortality is related to beautiful gardens and trees of the Olympus that produce sublime fruits - ambrosia - or some special nutriment inaccessible to humans. What we know for sure is that the  gods ate ambrosia drinking nectar, both prepared with a sacred water provided by the Youth Fountain. Both words, ambrosia and nectar, mean one thing: immortality.”

"You are partially right, Deary,” Rumple’s voice come from a ray of light from which he materializes in the room.

Standing up, Leroy and Grumpy start to panic, preparing to scream and run because of the ex-Dark One unannounced visit, but the kind smile of the Emissary, radiating a warm energy of peace and love calms them immediately and they sit down again.

“Who are you?” Laura Smith asks. “If you came in peace, have a seat with us,” she invites him, already making room for him in their bench.

“Thank you, but I’ll be brief, I'll be working soon at my son’s castle, the one that used to be my castle when I was alive. I really need to be there very soon, we will carry out important experiments regarding breaking the connection between the hibernating clones and their original bodies. You see, I’m Rumpelstiltskin, ex-Dark One,” and he smiles at Leroy and Grumpy. “I’m actually dead but, as you already must have heard, I’m temporarily on Earth as an Emissary of Poseidon, the god of the Seas, Rivers, Horses and Earthquakes.”

‘Wow,” that is a lot of attributes, you - that is, your Patron,  must be quite busy,” Doc remarks.

“He is, and he asked me to visit you, that’s why I’m here. You were wondering about ambrosia and nectar… the gods have both and a combination of them. The ingredients for preparing them, including a special honey produced in Persephone’s garden at Olympus, require - all of them, Water. Not any kind of water, but - as you know - the one coming from the Youth Fountain.”

“You said you are the God of the Rivers, don’t you?” W. Doc asks.

“Exactly. Listen, let’s go straight to the point as we are running against time. What Wish Pan and Wish Cruella did, instructed by Cruella who, in the Underworld, stole an ancient scroll and a book, was to cut the sacred spiritual connection between Earth and the Olympus. She instructed them to perform a ritual at the banks of an underground river, in the Enchanted Mountains, that broke the chain. To restore the connection a similar ritual must be performed by the same persons - or entities. In other words, only those who unplugged it are able to plug it again.”

"But that means all our effort, one whole day searching in vain for a Fountain was meant to be useless, so much noise for nothing ..." Leroy grumbles.

"On the contrary, Leroy," Rumple intervenes. "Your effort will be rewarded if you do what I am going to say - and in this part the contribution is much more mine than Poseidon's who, like you, had concluded that the problem was insoluble. My ability to find loopholes was extremely fortuitous and made us find the way out of this maze. Well, here's the map of Maine's water resources." And with a gesture of Rumple a map of Maine appears on the table.

"Your Pixie Dust Mines have showed you new trails of water that you have been tracking - and all of them have ended up in dry fountains. That’s because you were not the ones that performed the unplugging ritual. The Mineral World is trying to help us by creating these trails but they don’t last for too much and dry soon. However, as water always finds its way out, new streams will keep appearing in your mines. Next time you go there, that is, today, after breakfast, you will be prepared. For the connection to be restored you will have to track the streams of water with a new approach.” And at that, he magically brings a small trident and gives it to Kevin. “Here, take this with you, as sailors, you four must go with the dwarfs and the fairies - you too, Laura. Why you, sailors? Because your connection with this mini-trident will be stronger.”

“As soon as you get to the stream end, you use the Trident to touch the water: a new Fountain will spring its magic waters then.  Here is the loophole: what has been unplugged can only be plugged by whom performed the first ritual. But that doesn’t prevent anyone - us, or better saying, you, to create a new connection, one that hasn’t been unplugged because it didn’t exist before. This trident is a miniature of Poseidon’s trident and is impregnated with enough power to energize the water, to create a new Fountain on Earth. Immediately after touching the water, the Fairies, here on Earth, together with the Lilac Fairies, at Olympus, will fly over the waters to spread their Pixie Dust over them. The Mineral Elemental will help, they are on the alert, waiting for you. Good luck, Dearies!” Rumple smiles mischievously, content with the effect his dearies still have on people and disappears, heading to Gideon’s castle.

“What are we waiting for?” Happy stands up, already picking up his coat and enchanted ax.

“We are going, we are going,” Grumpy mumbles also preparing to go to their mines. “I only hope it works, this time…”

...

This time it works.

East-side Storybrooke, Multi-use Orchestra and Stage Room

Time is indeed Elastic, otherwise one single day wouldn't be enough for all the work that had to be done. And worked hard, all day towards the Ceremony at night, they have. The meticulous planning defined the day before was a key enabler for allowing them to achieve their goal. Seen from afar, the frantic pace of people resembled a swarm of bees in random agitation. However, as bees in their over-organized colonies, seen 'closely', there was a coordinated ordering where their individual activity complemented each other.

...

Although not quite ready for the purpose it has been intended, the Multiuse Orchestra and Stage Room was quickly adapted to accommodate all Alignment Ceremony preparation activities - in addition to the ceremony itself. To this end, there were taken to the new building, located on the outskirts of Eastside Storybrooke (aka Chinese Village), a great number of furniture, musical instruments, fabrics and materials for making native costumes and headdresses, real-time recording and broadcasting equipment, sound and lighting equipment, and whatever it took to accomplish in less than 10 hours of hard, coordinated work, the most important ceremony before the battle against the two Pans and the two Cruellas. (News from Nature elementals came that the two couples, also in ritualistic preparation, had spent the night before and apparently continued in the morning in a wild mating that involved sacrificing animals and plants).

Originally, the Rehearsal and Stage rooms had been designed by Emm to be part of the Music College complex, a project she had been developing. Initially, she had considered using some of her parents' castle halls, adapted as Chamber Music, Choral and Orchestra rooms, but was eventually convinced by the arguments of Storybrooke architects, most closely connected to the Land without Magic's architectural advances. “Believe us, the acoustic and sound effects we can achieve by building new facilities using state-of-the-art technological resources are vastly superior to those obtained in the palace halls adapted for this same purpose," they explained to her.

...

Throughout the day the running was intense. Backstage with proof of clothing, makeup tests, diverse rehearsals, editing of texts, adjustments and tuning of instruments and voices... Amid all this, Hope, always accompanied by Luna and Missy, and under her godmother's care, mingled with the frenzy, spreading (with small gestures of magic) twinkles and golden stars in the air - "they are for joy," she explained every time someone asked what she was doing.

Some people kept coming and going, coordinating the preparations for the Ceremony with other equally important activities taking place in parallel throughout the day. Killian and Key took turns with W. Brennan, Liam and Milah captaining the two Jolly Rogers to transport the 3-D screens to more remote locations, while the two airships and the three dragons flew back and forth, setting up the television signal retransmitters and antennas network.

"Will the signal be received at the Land without Magic?" Chad asked Nemo, "From here we get the signal that is transmitted from there..."

"Not because the carrier frequency we're using is outside the operating range of the equipment they use, and besides, I'm using quantum encryption so that even if someone picks up the signal they can't decode it," Nemo explained.

Emma, enamored with the number prepared by the Youngers with Henry's help, took over their stage direction and choreography, while Emm spent most of the time rehearsing with the orchestra and Ursula the performance of the chosen song.

Wish Ariel, Senior, Junior and Liam took over the direction of photography, sound and lighting. Liam and his Olympian Patron were extremely helpful with all equipment while Ursula took over the conduct of the orchestra, as Emm had to sing the song.

Split Regina, Wish Regina, Zelena and Wish Apprentice took on tasks that involved more sophisticated magic, and so, little by little, the Ceremony started to take shape.

In the middle of the afternoon, those who had been working on other missions joined the teams, so that by the end of the afternoon the finishing touches began to be given.

Red and Wish Red were in charge of the makeup, Snow of the locker room, and Johanna and both Grannys took over the food and drink.

To calm their fast-moving hearts as the time of the Ceremony approached, Alice, Ingrid and Ruth began to apply reassuring passes and massages and later, with the arrival of  Marian, Tiana, Jasmine, Anna and Merida, they formed a team to apply collective sessions of Reiki, energizing everyone with pacifying waves.

Gepetto worked during the afternoon on carving special chairs for the musicians, using enchanted wood, and Moe adorned the hall (audience and stage) with flowerpots.

Gradually the special guests: kings, queens, Emissaries and Magicians began to arrive and settle into the small auditorium. The cameras, sound and lighting tested, all set.

...

Henry, the first to present, takes a deep breath and walks to the backstage, where all presenters and artists are already concentrated. Cindy, from an armchair in the audience, sends him a kiss wishing him luck.

*

Enter Henry Mills, the Author.

"I greet all Living Beings in all dimensions and realms interconnected by the Power of Light, Peace and Love.

Two days ago, the Magic Pen of which I am the temporary guardian, which makes me the current Author, prophesied the script of the Alignment Ceremony - a  Sacred Art shared tonight with everyone in the United Realms, Olympus and Elysium Fields through this real-time transmission thanks to the Power of Magic, Science and Technology. Its Sacred Mystery will resonate and awaken within us the Warriors of the Earth, Moon and Sun.

The poetic riddle, base of the Ceremony defined by the magic pen, was:

"Through the Elders' drums, Freedom. Through the Youngers' dreams, Legend. Through the Moon, Wolf. Through the Eyes, Soul."

To the inner call for planning, organizing, producing, directing, performing and playing the Alignment, many responded. The Spirit of Light, Peace and Love drove, in record time, the hard work of this great number of people behind the scenes, in a collective effort, for producing tonight's ceremony.

From telecom infrastructure to big screens' distribution logistics, from magic teleport to magic protection spell, from stage teleprompter to magic assistance, from costumes to makeup, from photography direction to 3-D devices development, from enchanted wood provision to set design, from cameras' operation to stage direction, from dressing room assistance to backstage snacks, from production assistance to stage lighting, from sound engineering to live audience assistance, from magic healing to Reiki therapy, from art direction to teleplay & script, from scene choreography to screenplay, from executive production to general direction, from enchanted furniture and flowers to the delicious meals we were fed with during rehearsals and meetings: to all, Gratitude is in Order - we are making History.

In fact, the amplitude and impact of what we are living only from the perspective of History we will be able to understand. But one thing we can already be certain of: the new age of prosperity and peace to all Enchanted Lands has only become possible thanks to the luminous magic that created the United Realms. In this sense, tonight is doubly memorable because it marks the return to our conviviality of the United Realms creator - she is back, walking in her Healing path. Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome our Good Queen."

Enter Regina Mills, walking slowly, with elegance.

"I thank you all for your kindness and goodness. We will need all this kindness and all this goodness now, more than ever. To face our enemies, we must remain united in one heart, one mind. Together, unified, we are stronger than isolated and alone. Together, vibrating in resonance with the frequencies of Light, Peace and Love, we will become invincible. This is what the Sacred Alignment is meant to perform. It is meant to take us to the Here and Now. In the Here and Now we will Shine, Together.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is a great honor for me to be here and now to declare the Alignment Ceremony open."

Enter Fergus.

"The Wabanaki Confederacy (translated to People of the Dawn or Easterner) are a First Nations and Native American confederation of five principal nations: the Mi'kmaq, Maliseet, Passamaquoddy, Abenaki, and Penobscot.

The Wabanaki are in and named for the area which they call Wabanahkik ("Dawnland"), roughly the area made up of most of present-day Maine in the Land almost without Magic known as the United States, and New Brunswick, mainland Nova Scotia, Cape Breton Island, Prince Edward Island and some of Quebec south of the St. Lawrence River in Canada.

Two days ago, five Wabanaki shamans, Elders of their five nations, demonstrated why we must rename their land to Land almost without Magic . They went to Arendelle's Royal Palace, teleported by their own Magic, in response to a Mother Earth's call, for taking part in the Alignment, bringing with their drums, flute and chants the rhythm and pulse of our Mother Earth. They will open the Ceremony with the song Freedom.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the Elders' group Spirit of the Dawn."

Enter Aesop.

"Youth is the window through which the future enters the world. In making this statement I placed in the hands of the young the noble task of transforming the so-called “liquid society” into a fertile field of solid, deep and true relationships, where love can supersede hatred and indifference. After all, youth, endowed with aptitudes and peculiar creativity, cannot be molded by the exploits of the world without questioning itself as a thinking, virtuous and transforming subject of history.

Youth is the tomorrow of life, not a separate chapter from the rest of existence, nor is it the preface to a book. It is the premise of everything. It is the seed from which all springs forth. It is the foundation on which to lay the great building of life. What a majestic and beautiful mission!

The windows of life open at dawn so that big and small human dreams come true. However, the battle to reach great achievement, personal or collective change is procedural and often arduous and severe. Therefore, cultivating faith and self-confidence is a must in every dreamer's life.

The dream is the indispensable fuel for the struggles and achievements, this indomitable force that nourishes hopes and points new horizons and possibilities. The idealist is not someone who pretends happiness, but a life enthusiast who has learned the value of a treasure before he/she ever finds it. Therein lies the secret of believing for yourself! In the art of dreaming, one finds the reasons for believing in the values of one's existence. The young being who does not dream and who, in this vast world of possibilities, does not know where to go, will easily be lost in paths indicated by others, which will not always lead him to self-realization.

The youngsters who will perform on this stage have dreamed of the cultural manifestation of natives from this North American continent, which has welcomed the United Realms in one of its dimensional planes. These young people have cultivated this dream in their hearts - an ideal that they worked hard to become real.

To live is to be open to the new, to believe in love and purity of mind. It is urgent not to lose the charm of life nor the enthusiasm for the dreams that are believed - and the most beautiful thing is that these young men and young women researched and found this enchantment for the new looking into the past, into the ancestry of indigenous legends.

By the time the Magic Pen wrote the Alignment script, the Legend you are about to know had already been chosen, and the 10 representatives of Youth symbolically unfolded themselves in 10 times 10 thousand young people to translate the magic of the chosen native fable into a language resonant with the moment we are all living and pulsing.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the Youngers' group Spirit of the Day."

Altogether:

Enter the 5 Elders and, from behind the 10 Youngers, they play and chant the 'Wolf Song':

Enter Granny and W. Granny.

Granny: “Regardless of our gender, and despite all our apparent sophistication, we are nature, we remain wild creatures who somehow long to regain our ancient freedom to feel alive, to find our position in the world. Our challenge is to find the path for the wild without losing our vocational instinct for goodness. For that, women and she-wolves have a lot to teach everyone.”

W. Granny: "Within each woman lives a powerful force, a whirlwind of good instincts, creativity, passion and timeless knowledge that sometimes society itself makes us forget in an attempt to "tame" us. For us, women, being ourselves is, undoubtedly and profoundly, revolutionary.”

Granny: “The courage to be ourselves in any setting, in any context and regardless of who we are will allow us to preserve our identity. We are being ourselves when we are being strong.”

W. Granny: "But being strong doesn't mean exercising the muscles. It means finding our own brightness without running away, actively living with the wild nature in our own way. It means being able to learn, being able to defend what we know. It means staying and living. Strong is who stares, who does not run away, who shows without fear his/her identity, who does not surrender, who lives with joy and courage.”

Granny: "Most of today's women have been separated from their savage version, that instinctive essence with which the she-wolf knows who she is, recognizes herself, and feels strong, free, and important. We must therefore observe what our predecessors did to rediscover our value, our importance, and the energy that feeds us and makes us strong.”

W. Granny: "If we live as we breathe, holding and releasing, we cannot go wrong. This principle symbolizes nothing more than the life cycle: take, hold, let go, accept, move on…”

Granny: "The wolf, the old one, the one who knows is inside us. It blooms in the deepest psyche of women's souls, the ancient and vital Wild Woman. She describes her home as a place at a time when the spirit of women and the spirit of wolves come into contact.”

W. Granny: "Healthy wolves and healthy women have certain psychic characteristics in common: keen perception, playfulness, and a high capacity for devotion."

Granny: "Wolves and women are gregarious by nature, curious, endowed with great endurance and strength. They are deeply intuitive and have great concern for their puppies, their partner and their pack. Has experience in adapting to changing circumstances. They have a fierce determination and extreme courage."

W. Granny: "When women reaffirm their relationship with the wild, they are gifted with a permanent inner observer, a wise, a visionary, an oracle, an inspirer, an intuitive, a creator, an inventor, and a listener who guides. She suggests and stimulates a vibrant life in the inner and outer worlds."

Granny: "When women are with the Wild Woman, the reality of this relationship is reflected in them. No matter what happens, this savage instructor, mother, and mentor supports her inner and outer lives."

W. Granny: "Wolves and Women are lunar beings and Tonight, a specially magic Full Moon night, She-Wolves and Women will share a special connection symbolized by the silent, profoundly spiritual presence of five She-Wolves-Women from a special pack blessed by the gods."

Granny and W. Granny: "Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the She-Wolves' group Spirit of the Night."

Five Women walk in with their red hooded capes back to the cameras. Then they turn around taking off their magic cloaks to transform into She-wolves.

While four Wolves walk, with balance and beauty, to position themselves as guardians of the four corners of the Room, Killian Jones, Emma Swan-Jones, (Wish) Killian Jones and (Wish) Emma Sweet Nolan-Jones enter the stage, being received by the fifth Wolf, who conducts them to the center of the room where they all sit on four cushions placed on the floor.

After a pause for everybody to settle down, the 5 Elders enter the stage again playing and chanting another song, followed by the 10 Youngers  performing a round choreography while also chanting a mantra:

Round Dance

Enter W. Snow and W. David.

In silence, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Fergus, Aesop, Janet and W. Janet Lucas (Grannys) follow them and position themselves in the grand circle formed by the 5 Elders, 10 Youngers and 4 Wolves - 1 Wolf remains at the center of the circle with the two Killians and Emma Swan, all on their marks.

W. Snow: "Life is the most perfect translation of the most perfect Mystery."

W. David: "Love is the most perfect translation of the most perfect Magic."

W. Snow: "Life is eternal, and when translated into the circle of Time, it pulsates in cyclic contrasts: chiaroscuro, day-night, male-female, life-death."

W. David: "There is no Darkness that resists Light. Darkness exists because of the absence of Light."

W. Snow: "There is no Dark Magic that resists the Magic of Love, the most powerful and luminous of all Magic."

W. David: "The Light of Love encompasses all frequencies and aligns them synchronously by enveloping them in the pulse of Peace, Harmony, Fraternity, Health, and Happiness."

W. Snow and W. David: "Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the Orchestra Spirit of the Light, conducted by Ursula, and the Aligner, Emma Sweet Nolan-Jones."

Soul Eyes

1,2,3

[armeniaitn]

A Doctor of the Diaspora, With Artsakh in His Heart

New Post has been published on https://armenia.in-the.news/society/a-doctor-of-the-diaspora-with-artsakh-in-his-heart-49367-14-08-2020/

A Doctor of the Diaspora, With Artsakh in His Heart

Dr. Raffy Hovanessian

A Remembrance of Dr. Raffy Hovanessian (1938-2020)

BY LEVON LACHIKYAN English rendering by CHRISTOPHER H. ZAKIAN

A physician, in the truest sense, is not defined solely by his choice of profession. What defines him is a lifelong impulse to help others: a commitment to treat fellow human beings with compassion.

That’s how I have always understood the medical calling, in its highest expression. The doctors endowed with these qualities are rare, and very precious. So when we lose such a noble figure, we should do more than simply mourn that doctor’s death. We should acknowledge, and celebrate, the life and accomplishment that preceded his passing.

Our community—our world—lost such a shining example this spring, in the person of Dr. Raffy Hovanessian. An Armenian-American physician of the highest caliber, Dr. Hovanessian was a well-known—and beloved—public figure throughout the Armenian world. His death at age 81 on May 27, 2020, following a long, brave battle against cancer, brought to a close an astonishing lifetime of accomplishment, compassion, and benevolent work.

He was born in Jerusalem, on August 16, 1938—the eldest child of two survivors of the Armenian Genocide. They instilled in their son the qualities that would be the foundation of his consequential life: a life inspired at the deepest level by his Christian faith and Armenian heritage, and nourished by the spiritual strength Raffy drew from his family, his church, and his homeland.

Family One iconic image guided Raffy throughout his life: the memory of his father, Arakel. Raffy would often lovingly refer to his father in conversation as “a simple shoemaker”; but it was clear that to this grateful son, Arakel Hovanessian was so much more: a patriot, a man of moral vision. To illustrate that feeling, Raffy would quote his father’s explanation for having six children: “Son,” the Genocide survivor would say, “we lost so many souls in my generation. So this too is a way to serve our nation: by having many children.”

Raffy’s mother Diruhi was a nurse—and the likely inspiration for his youthful decision to become a doctor. But the medical vocation also held a logical attraction for a boy with an instinct to help others. His parents encouraged him in every way they could. His father surprised Raffy one day by giving him a violin. When the boy asked how the instrument would help him achieve his goal in medicine, his father replied that a good doctor needs precise, agile fingers, and the violin would be excellent training for that.

The family resided in Aleppo throughout Raffy’s primary education, but for his medical training he applied to the American University in Beirut. It was while living in that city that Raffy met the beautiful Armenian woman who would become his future wife, Shoghag Varjabedian.

“I glorify God’s blessing for giving me a wife like Shoghag,” he repeated with joy throughout his life. “She has always been a support for my spirit, an inspiration to lead me forward. At the same time, she is an ideal mother and grandmother to our three children and seven grandchildren.”

“Together, these two were a most exemplary couple,” said longtime friend Archbishop Khajag Barsamian, currently the Armenian Church’s Pontifical Legate of Western Europe. “They complemented each other in every way. And through their partnership, numerous vital projects were brought to life.” One of the most important of these projects was the rescue of America’s St. Nersess Armenian Seminary, which was in danger of shutting its doors. During that crisis in the 1990s, the Hovanessians’ leadership largely ensured the seminary’s ongoing vitality as an educational institution, which persists to this day.

Some three decades earlier, when Raffy and Shoghag settled in Chicago in the mid-1960s, they had brought a similar energy to the local Armenian community, helping to establish an AGBU center in the city and its Sissag H. Varjabedian Armenian Saturday School.

The family took a special interest in the advancement of Armenian artists. Arriving in Armenia in the wake of the 1988 earthquake, Shoghag recognized the quality and talent of a number of Armenian painters. As an art connoisseur and curator of numerous prestigious contemporary art exhibits, she was enthusiastic about introducing these artists to a wider, international audience. But she was also moved by the poor conditions in which they lived. Together with her husband, Shoghag worked intensely to create secure lives for the painters, so they could continue to reside in Armenia while exhibiting their work abroad. “Our goal was to allow talented Armenian artists to stay in their homeland, so that we would not lose them abroad,” she said.

This is the attitude they brought to all the arts in Armenia: a sense of duty to preserve the country’s native creativity. I vividly remember the visit Dr. and Mrs. Hovanessian paid to the Octet Music School in Armenia’s second largest city of Gyumri, which had been devastated by the 1988 earthquake. After listening to the impressive performances of the gifted students, they decided on the spot to support the higher education of several young talents, and later made active efforts to improve the school building and its resources.

Throughout their many visits to Armenia, the Hovanessians would frequently be in the company of their children—and later their grandchildren—in order to expose the new generations to the unique sights, sounds, tastes and aromas of their ancestral land.

Church Raffy Hovanessian grew up in an atmosphere of religious faith, observance, and piety—and those habits of the spirit remained with him throughout his life. As a boy attending Aleppo’s Emmanuel College, he become engrossed in the Bible, conversant in its stories and message. He put these lessons to active use in the way he conducted himself.

“The church has always been in me,” the doctor would later confess. He was convinced that if Armenians had not embraced Christianity, their nation would have ceased to exist as an entity in history. At a more personal level, the Armenian Church, with its deep and rich spiritual power, was where he would seek guidance, consolation, and encouragement at every crossroad in his life.

He would build many friendships based on such shared character. A notable one was forged in Beirut, where he befriended a young clergyman named Karekin Sarkissian. Their relationship was a great source of joy in Raffy’s life, and a source of pride as well, as he watched his friend scale the church hierarchy to become a bishop, the Catholicos of the Great House of Cilicia, and finally the Catholicos of All Armenians: His Holiness Karekin I.

In more formal roles, Dr. Hovanessian was a longtime member of the Diocesan Council of the Eastern Diocese of the Armenian Church of America, serving as its vice chair. Twice, in 1995 and 1999, he was elected to represent the Diocese at the National Ecclesiastical Assembly convened at the Mother See of Holy Etchmiadzin. Fellow church delegates from across the globe chose Raffy to chair those historic gatherings.

In 2014, the Eastern Diocese honored Dr. Raffy Hovanessian as its “Armenian Church Member of the Year” during ceremonies at St. Vartan Cathedral in New York City, surrounding that year’s Diocesan Assembly.

But above and beyond such public distinctions, Raffy’s first and deepest motivation was always to live up to his father’s counsel “to love the church and serve the church.” Wherever life took him, he followed it with the intense conviction that the Lord was guiding his steps.

Homeland From his earliest years, patriotic Armenian songs were always in Raffy’s ear—often sung by his father. Armenian recordings and radio were part of the ambient sound of the Hovanessian home throughout his life; Raffy would quiet a crowd when an Armenian broadcast came on with the phrase, “Yerevan is speaking.”

But it took until 1986 for him to arrive for the first time in Armenia. He did so in the company of his son Armen, and together they scaled the heights of Dzidzernagapert to burn incense at the Genocide Memorial in memory of their ancestors.

He became a much more frequent visitor in the years following Armenia’s independence—difficult as that time was with its dearth of electricity and heating. He would travel there every three to six months, usually in his professional capacity as a physician. His natural compassionate spirit was energized as never before when he witnessed the hardships being endured by his countrymen, and Raffy vowed to do whatever he could to stand by his people, and encourage their progress.

In his heart, Raffy paid little heed to the constricted political boundaries of his homeland. For him, Armenia included Javakhk and Artsakh, and the Armenians resident in those regions were equally the focus of Raffy’s attention and concern.

His motivation in all things was a commitment to national ideas, the preservation of Armenian identity and, more personally, a desire that his life would not be lived in vain. To these ends, he made his influential mark on the diaspora’s numerous educational and charitable organizations, among them the Armenian Assembly of America (where he was a board member from 1986 to 1989) and the Armenian General Benevolent Union (where he sat on the Central Council from 1989 to 2000).

Standing out among these efforts was his fruitful leadership role in the Fund for Armenian Relief (FAR), the humanitarian aid, relief, and development organization of the Eastern Diocese of the Armenian Church of America. Dr. Hovanessian became an initiator and promoter of countless FAR projects, often focusing on the reform and advancement of medicine, medical education, and healthcare in the young Armenian Republic.

He was instrumental in launching FAR’s “Regional Doctor Training Program” in 2005, which trained physicians in Armenia’s far flung provinces, as well as programs that gave special attention given to medical personnel from Javakhk and Artsakh. I can envision Raffy during the press conference announcing one such effort in 2011, where he stood among officials of the Ministries of Health of Armenia and Artsakh, the State Medical University, and FAR. Dr. Hovanessian’s beaming face expressed the deep satisfaction he found in these undertakings.

The truth is that following the Soviet Union’s collapse, healthcare systems among the former Soviet republics were on a hazardous path to failure. The programs and fundraising shouldered by Dr. Raffy Hovanessian, through FAR and the Armenian-American Health Professionals Organization (AAHPO), gave Armenia and its medical professionals a fighting chance to improve their skills and upgrade the country’s health system, with benefits felt in the treatment of countless Armenian citizens. Today, most of the physicians and medical personnel working in Armenia and Artsakh have taken advantage of one or more of the innovative training programs resulting from these efforts.

Realizing that competent nursing played a crucial role in the healthcare systems of rural Armenia and Artsakh, Raffy prevailed upon his close friend, the great American-Armenian benefactor Nazar Nazarian, to fund a top-notch training and continuing education program for nurses. The practical model of first-aid training that emerged from the program has proved vitally important in a region that is under constant threat of war from Azerbaijan. It has also been effective in managing the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic in the region.

Dr. Hovanessian also contributed to the progress of Yerevan State Medical University—becoming its “unofficial ambassador to America,” in the words of Dr. Gevorg Yaghjyan, a former vice-rector of the university and a board member of the FAR Medical Alumni Association.

A Doctor’s Prescription In the final seven years of his life, Dr. Raffy Hovanessian fought a battle against cancer. He fought courageously, but also quietly: refusing to surrender a single moment to regret or self-pity; never losing any of his characteristic optimism. To the very end he met with leaders in the business and medical circles of the Armenian-American community, always promoting the importance of the programs he was involved with—always stressing the utmost imperative of their continuation.

As an immediate legacy of his passing, he left a bequest to the Fund for Armenian Relief to establish the “Raffy Hovanessian Educational Foundation.” Once again, the target of his concern was Artsakh and the development of its healthcare system.

Certainly, the name of Dr. Raffy Hovanessian will be remembered with honor, in death as it was in life. During his lifetime he was the recipient of numerous awards, from entities around the world. He was grateful for such recognitions—he was especially charmed that both he and Shoghag had been awarded America’s Ellis Island Medal of Honor—while accepting them in a spirit of genuine humility and detachment. The glory of name-recognition was never Raffy’s motivation. What drove him, filling his life with consequence and joy, was the work itself, and the chance it presented to do a good turn to others—especially to his own people.

It’s not surprising that as a physician, Dr. Hovanessian was concerned with the health and well-being of his countrymen. He gave voice to that sentiment in an interview he once gave: “Let us never forget that we are Armenians,” he said. “Our great connection to each other is that we belong to the same nation. The blood flowing in our veins is distinctive, unique; to infect it with mutual jealousy, animosity, and opposition would be a costly mistake.”

Though uttered years ago, those words speak with poignant urgency and meaning to our own day. They provide the perfect note on which to conclude this remembrance of a patriotic Armenian—and a physician in the truest sense.

Read original article here.

[madleeindifferent]

Shape of You

Title : Shape of You

Pairing : Castiel X Reader

Word Count : 2,800

Prompt : based on the song Shape of You by Ed Sheeran. Castiel has been an angel for thousands of eons, having a real vessel is still a little new to him. Not only that, but he has never taken the real opportunity to admire other human’s vessels. When he notices you for the first time, his reaction leads to a pleasant experience for the both of you. (not my gif)

“Oh come on, one more round on me!”

You let out a happy laugh as Dean lifted his now empty shot glass at you. “I think you’ve had enough for one night, Winchester.”

“Nnnope.” Dean drew out his denial with a sloppy grin, setting down his shot glass rather roughly. He wiggled his brows at you, a flirtatious gleam in his green eyes. “I am just getting started.” He turned away from you with an attempt at a charismatic smirk at a hot bartender that sauntered by.

You shook your head hopelessly. You were a bit tipsy yourself, but even in that state you had to admit Dean’s sloppy charisma was still way sexier than most sober men’s.

You looked down at your drink with a blushing smile. The alcohol was burning down in the pit of your chest, making your vision just a tiny bit fuzzy and your fingers just a tiny bit tingly. You looked to Sam for some help, but the younger Winchester was even sloppier than his older brother. Sam tended to avoid drinking on the usual occasion, therefore when he tried to keep up with his brother, he ended up the way he was now, giggling uncontrollably as he laughed with a guy and two girls at the bar a few seats away from you.

You looked around. This bar was one of your usual spots, and it wasn’t so bad, honestly. It was a good place to hang out with the gang on a good day, and after a successful salt and burn yesterday, you and the Winchesters found its glowing neon sign a little hard to resist on the drive back to the motel.

You looked around. The place was packed, and considering it was the only bar in the small town, you weren’t surprised. The air seemed thick with sexual tension and you smirked as you took in the ratio of men to women.

There were bodies everywhere.

A few men were struggling to talk their way into a booth with three younger women behind you, and by the door two other guys were starting to raise their voices as a girl struggled to stop the fight before it started. You turned to the left and stopped when you saw a young man and woman in the far corner, kissing. You tilted your head to the side as you watched them; the man wrapping his hand around her waist pulling her to his hips, his mouth open and passionate on her lips, his other hand tangling in her loose curls. She had her fists knotted in his collar, her neck strained to the side to kiss him back with equal fervor.

You felt a tiny blossom of heat tickle in your ribcage as you watched them kiss for a minute, your fingers tapping on the rim of your bottle.

You hadn’t ever really thought about how intimate a bar could be. In the end, it was better than the club. You looked away as the man’s hands began to roam down the woman’s chest, feeling blush rise to your cheeks for staring. In a bar, people were somehow more approachable.

More welcoming.

You let out a gasp as a man staggered into you with an apologetic smile before he kept walking toward the restrooms. You pushed your hair behind your ear with hot cheeks, trying to hide a smile.

People were more human.

You felt a familiar tingle run down your spine and you turned your head.

Blue eyes were watching you from across the room. You smiled, feeling your heart stutter in your chest. You hopped down from your barstool and headed toward the other end of the bar. You made your way up to the trench-coated figure sitting by himself on the far end of the room, trying to hold his blue gaze as you moved toward him.

The moment he realized you had caught him staring, the blue eyes shot downward.

You almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

You stopped a few feet away from the body at the end of the bar. “Hey, Cas.” Your tongue felt a little heavy in your mouth, but it wasn’t a bad feeling. Your face felt hot, but you didn’t mind.

Castiel didn’t react instantly to your voice. Instead he stared down at the beer that Dean had bought for him when he first arrived. He shifted and slowly dragged his dazzling blue gaze up to yours. “Hello.”

You smiled, trying to hold back a giggle at his serious tone. You gestured to the empty stool next to his. “Mind if I join you?”

Cas stiffened a tiny bit. “No.”

You almost laughed then. “Cas…” Your tone made him look up and into your eyes. You threw back your head with a light laugh. “Why are you always so serious?”

Castiel stared into your eyes for a long moment. You both smiled at the same time, and you had to look away to stifle a giggle. “I am not always serious.” He mumbled, smiling sheepishly down at his drink.

You reached out and lightly tugged his arm, smiling at him with a soft expression. “Are you having fun?”

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

You looked him over. Maybe it was because you had taken one too many sips of your drink, maybe it was the song that just started to play through the joint, or maybe it was just him, but Castiel seemed to glow in that light. Literally. He was glowing.

You cocked your head to one side, looking at him.

He was something else. You had never met another man who captivated you so entirely as he did. It had to be his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes. Maybe it was his body. He had an incredible one, you had to admit. He was gorgeous, even though he was wrapped up into too many layers of clothes.

“What are you doing?”

You blinked, shaken from your day dreaming state by Castiel’s rough, low voice. Only then did you realize he had caught you staring. You cleared your throat and tried to take a drink to divert his attention, but this was Cas. He had the lazer-like focus, and now, all his attention was on your face, his face soft and curious.

“I…I was admiring your…face.” You let out a laugh as your words tumbled out uselessly as a wave of heat flushed to your face. You shook your head. “That sounded stupid.”

You blinked up to see Cas studying your face, his eyes softer than usual.

When he didn’t reply, you looked away, a little embarrassed. “What?”

His lips parted for a moment. “I—” He looked at you with his piercing gaze, his focus curious and contemplative. “I’ve never been told that before.”

You frowned. “Come on, Cas. I have only been hunting with you idiots for a few weeks, but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice how girls stare you down wherever you go.”

Castiel was still. “Girls stare?” He repeated softly, his blue eyes narrowed in confusion.

You blinked at him. “Uh, yeah.” You smirked when he stared at you, dumbfounded. “Wait, you mean to tell me you didn’t notice those girls at the door tonight either?”

Castiel swiveled on his seat to look at the two young women by the door, his eyes wide.

“Don’t look!” You snapped with a giggle, slapping him. He flinched, but his eyes went from confused to pleasant in a fraction of a second.

“They were?”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond to the angel. You would have laughed at him, had he not sounded so shocked. Finally you swallowed and shook your head with a smile at your shoes. “I mean, who wouldn’t? You’re hot.”

The moment the words left your lips you felt shock rush to the pit of your stomach with a pang. Shit. Did you seriously just say that?

“I mean…nothing.” You tried to save yourself, but it failed uselessly and you looked down at your drink, trying not to blush. When nothing happened, you dared to sneak a glance at Cas. You found him staring at you, his blue eyes deep and thoughtful and clearly taking in your features in slow precision.

“Why are you staring at me?” You hiccupped, feeling the heat in the pit of your stomach work into a bright red blush on your face.

There was a moment of silence as your eyes met Castiel’s. Finally his perfect lips parted and his voice fell from his chest, low, gruff and thick. “I’ve never looked at you before.”

You frowned at his words. “What?”

Castiel shifted and you realized he was swiveling toward you, now resting on the edge of his seat as if he was pulled to you by some sort of magnet. “I’ve always seen your soul.” You felt a flutter in your chest at his sincere words, as the lights from the sign above the bar lit him pale blue and red. His voice was so soft you had to lean toward him to hear him. “It’s bright and beautiful. I’ve always admired that…”

When you didn’t speak, he shifted again, almost touching your hand with his long fingers. You held your breath as he stepped off the stool toward you. “I’ve never taken the time to look at…your body.”

You felt a rush of heat and you swallowed, blinking up at him. He was staring at your lips. You subconsciously bit your lip as your eyes fluttered up to his blue gaze. “And what do you think?” You meant to sound confident and flirtatious, but your breath came out barely above a whisper.

“I…” Castiel didn’t really finish his thought, his words slipped away into silence as his usually intent gaze landed on your eyes. You swallowed when you saw the admiration and desire in his eyes. It stole your breath away.

You both decided to move at the same moment. You lunged toward him and he moved to you, his hands flying up to cup your face in his palms. You swept your arms around his cloaked shoulders, running your fingers through his soft black hair. You dug your fists into the soft curls, holding him tightly as his mouth opened, his tongue running gently across your bottom lip hungrily. “I think….” Castiel managed out a sort gasp before you silenced him with a hungry kiss before he could finish the thought. “I love it.”

You smiled giddily against his open mouth, enjoying the taste of him. He felt amazing under your wandering hands.

“You’re beautiful…” Cas hissed against your lips as you shifted toward him, pushing him back roughly onto the seat behind him. He grunted in surprise for a moment, but as you kept your lips on his, he seemed to relax a tiny bit, drawing you up onto his lap with a needy groan. You shifted, pressing a hand into his lower abdomen until he let out a low breath, the heat of his air stirring against the side of your neck. You vaguely felt his fingers reach up and brush your hair back from your face. “Beautiful…” The angel repeated his voice thick and deep.

You pressed a hot kiss to his lips before you nipped lightly at his lower lip, enjoying the way he stiffened at your touch, the entire experience rather new to him.

“I want you.”

You froze at his words, your lips lingering on his. You pulled back slowly, unsure if you had heard him right. You narrowed your eyes, asking him to repeat himself.

Castiel swallowed hard when he saw the way you stared at him. You noticed a bright red blush work onto his cheeks and he began to stutter. “I-I mean…I don’t know why I said that. I must be crazy.”

“Cas…” You pulled back with smile, feeling the cool air on your cheeks for the first time as you looked him over again. “Don’t talk too much.”  

Cas frowned at your words. You tried to hide a delighted grin as you realized just how innocent he really was. You reached down, gently running your fingers down his arms, noticing the way he seemed to shiver at the slight contact. You gently grasped his hands in yours and pulled his rough hands up and placed them on your waist. He cast you a cautious glance and you smiled knowingly. “It’s okay, Cas.” You took the moment to arch into the curve of his body hotly. He let out a little hiss and his fingers tightened on your waist as he leaned his forehead against your shoulder, breathing in your hair. “Put your body on me.”

He let out a soft sigh, his breath hot on your neck and you basically purred at the warmth that he invited through your frame. You pressed a kiss just below his ear and he tensed before he grasped at your shoulders and pulled you back to look at you. He seemed to stare at all of you at one blinding moment before he dragged you back to his mouth, kissing you hungrily. “I’m in love with you.” Her snarled against your lips.

You let out a breathless sigh into his lips before you pulled back. Cas leaned toward you again, but you raised a hand and pressed your fingers to his lips to stop him. He deflated at your movement, but he stopped nonetheless. Suddenly, you noticed Castiel’s mussed hair and you giggled, trying to smooth it back down as you adjusted his tie back to its original state. He let out a soft sigh and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear with a genuine smile. You blinked up at him.

“Let’s go.”

You took his hand and stood up, heading for the door. Castiel hesitated for a fraction of a second before he stepped after you, his fingers entwining with yours.

“Where?”

“Back to the motel. Just you and me.”

Castiel’s fingers gave yours a tiny squeeze. “What about Sam and Dean?”

You grinned. “I’ll call a cab. No need to bother them.”

You looked back only to see Cas smiling at you. “I think I’d like that.”

You smiled, turning back to give him a quick kiss, feeling your heart hammer in your chest at the simple contact. “I love you.”

Castiel couldn’t really wait until the taxi got to the bar before he was kissing you again. He was a fast learner, and each passing moment made you fall more and more in love with him. Not just his soul; which in and of itself was brilliant and breathtaking, but for the first time, you were falling in love with the mere shape of him. You kissed him as the cab pulled up and you kissed him as you both tumbled a little clumsily into the back of the cab.

He laid back on the seat, holding you tight and close as you leaned over his chest, kissing him happily as the driver asked, “Where to?”

You giggled the address of the motel before Cas pulled your mouth back to his impatiently, a smile on his perfect lips.

You let out a happy groan as Castiel kissed you hungrily, his hands roaming down your body.

You were falling in love with everything about him. You were falling in love with his furrowed brows, his sharp jawline, the stubble on his jaw, the softness of his lips, the color of blush in his cheeks, the taste of his lips, the blueness of his deep, profound gaze.

You were in love with him. And every instant with him made you notice something new.

You kissed him until you couldn’t breathe, pushing his trench coat back from his shoulders in the back of the cab.

You giggled as Cas let out a groan as you went to work unbuttoning the collar of his shirt, a smile on his lips. You heard a low cough from the driver of the car and you looked up, your hair a mess. Castiel glanced at the driver too, his blue eyes sparkling and wild. You grinned as the driver’s eyes met yours.

“Could you turn up the radio?” You managed, your voice ragged and shaky.

The driver quickly obliged and you laughed as Cas gave you a restless tug, pulling you down to his waiting lips with a happy sigh.

As you rode through the night, kissing your angel without a care in the world, the music from the radio filled the car with a soft, wonderful melody.

“I’m in love with the shape of you.

We push and pull like a magnet do

Although my heart is falling too

I’m in love with your body…”

[mrmichaelchadler]

Natural Woman: A Tribute to Aretha Franklin

The world lost actual royalty on Thursday, August 16th, 2018, when the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin, passed away at age 76. Our own Odie Henderson already paid tribute to her in his eloquent obituary, but we wanted to open the floor to a few more thoughts from our team, including Chaz Ebert, Nell Minow, Brian Tallerico, Omer Mozzafar, B. J. Bethel, Steve Erickson, Peter Sobczynski and Matt Fagerholm. Words can’t really do her justice, but we will try.

CHAZ EBERT

ARETHA FRANKLIN: NATURAL WOMAN

Ms Aretha Franklin, the undisputed Queen of Soul, was the singular musical influence in my life. Not the single, as in only, but the most important. I have great admiration for many singers such as Sara Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald, Esther Phillips, Lena Horne, Whitney Houston, June Anderson, Dianna Ross, Adele, Dionne Warwick, and Barbara Streisand but Aretha’s singing helped me to discover the music of the heartstrings. Whether she was crooning "Natural Woman," "Dr Feelgood," "Giving Him Something He Can Feel," "I Say a Little Prayer," "Brand New Me," "This Girl's In Love With You," "Chain of Fools,"  “Nessun Dorma” or “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” her brand of soul seeped deep into my psyche, taking me through various experiences of love, as she was never timid about letting you know whether she was deliriously in love or woefully in pain, or on some platform in between the two.

There is a certain kind of down-home blues called “gut bucket” blues, not only because you feel it in your gut with each strum of the guitar but because it sounds like it is wrenched from the guts of the singer, from his or her firsthand experience with no money for rent and the baby needs shoes, and your love done got up and gone. Aretha’s songs came from her gut. There was no artifice. Her soulful moans were a direct translation whether you were wondering about love, falling in love, discovering sex, nursing a broken heart or telling a man to give you some Respect. She was that natural woman, who struggled with her weight, and her clothes but never with her affection for family and friends. When she performed professionally she sometimes demanded to be paid in cash and was known for carrying it around in her purse within her eyesight on stage. But that was her way of being assertive, for standing her ground and making sure she didn’t end up penniless like a lot of the entertainers who were taken advantage of. Whether in love or in life, her songs came from deep emotions and a myriad of deep experiences.   

But she was also a multi-talented original, so her songs also came from her heart and soul, beginning with the gospel songs she sang in her father Reverend C. L. Franklin’s church in Detroit.  Her rendition of “Amazing Grace,” brings me to tears each time. And the miracle is how well she seamlessly blended the gospel and the secular, finding the divinity in each.  She took this blend of gospel and secular on the road with Dr Martin Luther King, Jr. to help with the struggle for civil rights. She didn’t back down from confrontation. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” became a clarion call both for the civil rights movement and the women’s liberation movement.

I loved Aretha and what she stood for and the news of her death leaves me heartbroken. On the few occasions when Roger and I ran into her at events, I was surprised to find out that she could be shy. Or so she told me. Maybe that was part of her need for privacy; part of her Diva shield. She would get us alone and kick off her shoes, and she became playful and warm and funny. She could give as good as she got, and she loved teasing and catching up on the latest goings-on. It is so hard to say goodbye to someone who feels like they have been a part of your life for so long, even if you know them mainly through their music. I am just “saying a little prayer for her” and thanking her for all of the deeply soulful heart connections she engendered. And I am sending out the most heartfelt condolences to her family. Heaven has a new Queen.

BRIAN TALLERICO

When I was a teenager in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, a suburb of Detroit, I worked in a book store called Metro News Center (it was mostly magazines and newspapers, but also had a healthy supply of new books). I can still remember the first time Aretha Franklin walked through the front door. There was no mistaking who it was. She wasn’t the kind of face you didn’t place. It was as if actual royalty had entered the building. A hush fell over the whole store that felt almost supernatural, as if the world made way for her wherever she went. When I think of the very concept of a celebrity being “larger than life,” I think of that encounter—the Queen of Soul wandering the aisles in a book store and the world stopping to watch her do it. It was unforgettable—although I’d pay a lot of money to remember what books she bought.

The world didn’t just lose a generational musical talent, it lost that increasingly rare degree of celebrity and superstar that can truly justify the title Queen.

OMER MOZAFFAR

She was that older sister who knocked down walls with the sheer will of her personality and the power of her voice.

NELL MINOW

I won’t try to express the greatness of Aretha Franklin with superlatives.  Even the most extravagant would not do her justice. I will just say that beyond that voice, her magnificent instrument, the match of any musical genre or mood, beyond the inerrant musicianship that could take a melody, twist it, stretch it, toss it to the moon and back again without losing a brilliantly shaped note, was her grace as a person and a performer. When she demanded respect, when she told you to think, when she sang, “Mary, Don’t You Weep,” when she stepped in at the last minute to substitute for the foremost tenor of the world, Luciano Pavarotti, to sing his signature aria, Nessun Dorma, everyone who was lucky enough to hear her understood that her real greatness came from the honesty of a true natural woman.

B.J. BETHEL

Aretha Franklin's title of "Queen of Soul" was more than befitting the greatest singer America ever produced. She defended her reign in numerous feuds with other singers and celebrities. But one wonders if she took the title so personal because she was a Queen without a King.

Sam Cooke was more than inspiration for Franklin. The two met when she was 12 and he was in his early 20s.

Cooke died in 1964 after being shot by the manager of a hotel, an incident that still hasn't been wholly investigated and one he family - 50 years later - still wants re-opened.

Cooke was 33 years old when he died but was already dubbed the "King of Soul" for a string of songs and hits that may never be repeated, and a voice that expressed a joy and inspiration that was quite opposite of the hard life he lived.

"A Wonderful World," "Saturday Night," "Twistin' the Night Away," "Chain Gang." were a few of his hits, songs that were all staples of pop and soul music. His talent was equaled only by Franklin.

On Franklin's hit album "I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You," she covered two of Cooke's songs. "Good Times," and his hit "A Change Is Gonna Come" as the final track on a record that began with "Respect." Pitchfork named the record one of the 10 best of the ‘60s, Rolling Stone had it in a list of top 100 records of all time. Cooke's inspiration was all over it.

What the two could have done if they had both been blowing up the charts at the same time has always been a question hanging in my imagination.

STEVE ERICKSON

When I went out for breakfast this morning at a Manhattan cafe, the radio was tuned to a station playing '80s and '90s R&B and hip-hop. The DJ spoke in between songs about Aretha Franklin's death today and her immense importance in American culture, but at least while I was there the station couldn't be bothered to play any of her actual music. But the artists they did play - Mary J. Blige (one of her most obvious descendants), Anita Baker, even a male singer like Prince - would have sounded much different without the bravery and swagger of her late '60s and early '70s music. "Respect" is just the beginning. Albums like SOUL '69, SPIRIT IN THE DARK and YOUNG, GIFTED & BLACK offer plenty of deep cuts, and a stylistic range that includes rock, jazz, blues and gospel, although she usually just gets summed up as a soul singer. The kind of female African-American rebellion summed up by "Respect" isn't exactly absent from our culture, but it says something about our times that the attitude and struggle represented by her best music and public persona still seem very contemporary.

PETER SOBCZYNSKI

As was probably the case for a lot of people who share my age and general background, my first real exposure to the majesty of Aretha Franklin came from the silver screen. For my ninth birthday, my family went to go see “The Blues Brothers,” a film that I had been champing at the bit after having seen its production virtually take over the Chicago area the previous summer. During the first section, our heroes are jumping bridges, getting blown up, driving through shopping malls, getting smacked by nuns and getting redeemed by the power of James Brown and for a movie-mad kid like me, every frame of it was a delight. Then Jake and Elwood decide to step into a restaurant on the famed Maxwell Street to grab some lunch and, hopefully, their old guitar player and saxophonist. What they run into is a force of nature that not even the combined efforts of all the top visual effects artists in Hollywood could ever hope to equal—a pissed-off Aretha Franklin laying down the law to her husband, the guitarist, via a rendition of “Think,” the 1968 song that she co-wrote with her real life then-husband Ted White. Her performance was volcanic—a show-stopper in the best possible sense—and for the three minutes and change that she is singing, the film essentially shifts in tone from goofy musical comedy to grand opera. Even people who didn’t like the film as a whole—and such miserable creatures do exist—were blown away by that scene and many critics pointed out that one flaw in the film is that when Jake and Elwood leave with their former bandmates, they inexplicably neglected to bring her along as well.

As a result of that movie, I began looking into the R&B/soul legends who populated the soundtrack and whose careers were given a welcome boost as a result of their association with the film, Franklin chief among them. I will admit that there are other people who could better articulate the power of her voice and how it not only revolutionized the music world but proved to be a force of strength in the battles for civil rights and women’s rights. I am not even going to attempt to do that for fear of inadvertently sounding like a character out of a lesser Nick Hornby novel. I will, say, however, that she was an artist who well and truly gave her all with every performance. She could take a dumb song (I’m looking at you, “Freeway of Love”) and usually invest it with far more passion and energy than it deserved so that even the throwaway filler tracks had more life to them than the best efforts of most of her contemporaries. When she had the chance to work on better material—(“You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” to “Think” (which she would eventually perform in “what would be one of the few highlights in the otherwise dire “Blues Brothers 2000”) to “Nessun Dorma,” the aria from Puccini’s “Turandot” that she famously performed during the 1998 Grammy Awards for millions of viewers, literally at the last minute, after original performer Placido Domingo fell ill—the results were simply exhilarating. She may be gone now in the literal sense but thanks to her musical legacy, the power and presence that she demonstrated every time she stepped up to a microphone will never be diminished.

MATT FAGERHOLM

Some people have you at "hello." Aretha Franklin had me at "Think." Her performance of that iconic tune in "The Blues Brothers" was such an electrifying and hilarious showstopper that it made me a lifelong fan. I received a six-CD boxed set of her greatest hits for Christmas that I listened to throughout my childhood, amazed by the versatility of her genius. Three years ago, she made a surprise appearance at the Kennedy Center Honors, where she paid tribute to Carole King by bringing down the house with "(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman." President Obama wept, and I did too. Thank you, Aretha, for your limitless inspiration.

from All Content https://ift.tt/2OJBDVc

[olivereliott]

Watchlist: The Best Motorcycle Photographers, Part II

We’re often asked what the ‘EXIF’ in Bike EXIF means. If you don’t know, it stands for ‘Exchangeable Image File format,’ referring to the data a digital camera saves when it takes a snap.

Basically we care as much about photos as we do about motorcycles. Without good photos, Bike EXIF wouldn’t be half the site it is.

So for the second time, we’re profiling three motorcycle photographers to watch. Last time we featured Aaron Brimhall, Jun Song and David Marvier; today we’re chatting to Anthony Scott (USA), Devin Paisley (SA) and Mihail Jershov (UK)—guys who all excel in natural light environments.

ANTHONY SCOTT

Where are you based? Portland, Oregon. I’m originally from Birmingham, Alabama but moved to Portland in 2013 after getting out of the military.

What bike do you ride? I have a few, but my daily is my Harley-Davidson Springer. On special occasions I like to take out my race-inspired Honda CB550 (below) that I call #27—it’s part of a 27 bike series. Or #26, an RD400. I’ll be adding more to my special occasion list, as I’m currently working on #25 and #24.

Where do you get your inspiration? Truthfully I find inspiration in a lot of different things. The bikes that I’m building are a homage to the Moto GP legends and the vintage racing era, so I gather a lot of inspiration there. I just love the style of bikes back then and how they really captured the imagination of future generations. I feel like they gave us dreamers something really good to dream about.

All you have to do is look around you and there is inspiration everywhere. For me, it always evolves and changes, so I let whatever I’m daydreaming about at the moment influence me the most. I just have to make sure I don’t stay stagnant. I’m always playing around with new business ideas, and ways to incorporate all of my loves and interests into one community hangout spot: everything from vintage cars, motorcycles, surfboards, and good faded denim. My search is still ongoing for a space to do all of this, but I’m excited to see what the future holds.

How did you get started in motorcycle photography? I stumbled upon photography a few years ago during a period in my life when I was really struggling with PTSD. My camera became an escape; something else that I could focus on that later helped me work through that time. I still remember like it was yesterday, seeing a feature on a Seaweed & Gravel build. The photos were so beautifully shot, and it was those photos that pushed me to want to learn more about motorcycle photography—any and all types.

My first camera was a Canon T2i that I purchased from a nice elderly couple on Craigslist. I quickly realized it was a lot harder than it looks to capture the type of images I’d seen many times before. But this just fueled me to get better and try harder. I’m still not sure how much better I’ve gotten, but the process brings me a lot of joy!

Are you a full-time photographer? I wish I could be a full time photographer, but I just do it as a hobby. 100% of my photography is done for free. I’m really just having fun, and I like helping others fulfill their dreams through photography.

So many people dream about having their bike featured on Bike EXIF and in print publications, something I can totally relate to. People have helped me out along the way, and I’m just trying to return the favor. I also feel that keeping it as a ‘just for fun’ hobby takes some of the pressure off (until it’s the first of the month and rent is due, then sometimes I re-think my strategy, ha!)

What equipment do you use? Canon EOS 5D Mark II body, Canon EOS 7D Mark II body, Canon EF 24-70mm f/2.8L lens, Canon EF 70-200mm f/2.8L lens and Canon EF 50mm f/1.2L lens. I also play around a little with a drone and a GoPro Hero 5.

Your favorite shooting location? This is a tough one, and totally depends on the purpose of the shoot and the bike itself. Some bikes call for a super gritty industrial spot, and others call for a wide-open field or nature-filled spot. You can also go somewhere more than once, and each time can be different depending on the weather, time of day, etc. If I really had to pick a favorite, it would be a good moody or foggy backdrop somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.

Your favorite subject matter? I recently started doing more portrait work and it has been my most fulfilling adventure yet. It’s challenging to capture a person just right, something natural and in the moment. Some of my other favorites are vintage custom bikes and vintage cars, hands down. I’m getting better at mixing all my interests together and that brings me a lot of joy.

Let’s talk postproduction—what’s your process? How do you feel about filters? Ah, the question we all fear. A lot of people have firm opinions on the use of filters. The camera will always capture my subject, but programs like Photoshop and Lightroom help me fine-tune my work as an artist. As an artist, we really have the freedom to take our photo wherever we want them to go.

I often find raw photos just as appealing as something that has been re-worked. It will always depend on each individual situation and shoot. Not all situations can be ideal (difficult lighting, distracting background), and that’s when postproduction comes handy. There can always be things that need cleaning up or enhancing, but I also want to make sure my photos feel realistic and not over-processed. Overall, my feelings are just to do what feels and looks best to you.

What about Instagram? I think Instagram is a great avenue to connect with others and share your passions, but you just can’t take it too seriously. Not everyone will be your biggest fan, and some of them will freely voice that. You just have to do what you love, and take it all with a grain of salt.

One day I might post a photo that I’m really proud of, and it will get zero love. The next I might throw up a photo that I casually snapped running around Portland, and it will blow up. It’s totally unpredictable. I’ve met some pretty incredible people through Instagram that I may not have met otherwise, and those opportunities and friendships are really cool.

Tell us about shooting Dirt Quake For the last few years I have had the opportunity to attend and photograph Dirt Quake USA. This past year I was asked by See See Motorcycles and Sideburn Magazine to be the official photographer. It blew my mind to have the chance to photograph, race, party, repeat with these two wonderful companies. They literally kill it every year. For months I was stoked, but the closer the date came I started to notice a pit at the bottom of my stomach. The pressure was on. Help was on the way, my younger sister flew in for moral support, which I think was just a guise to get a University Summer Break at her big brother’s expense (but I love her). My partner Melissa Bryan tried to assure me it would be fine and she would be there as well, but I couldn’t shake the feeling.

The first day was a blistering 100+ degrees, no shade, fast track and fast times. It was a whirlwind. My body was sore in places I didn’t know existed. Unfortunately the pit in my stomach was still there. It was not until the next day when Hooligan Rider Jimmy Hill sent his Indian Scout and I caught him full frontal that it hit me. This is supposed to be fun dude, just enjoy yourself!

If you had one piece of advice for readers who like to shoot bikes, what would it be? Don’t put too much pressure on yourself, you’ll learn as you go. Everyone is going to have a different style, and that’s what makes each photographer and shoot so unique. My best advice, as clichéd as it may sound, is just have fun and spread good vibes. Oh, and Stay Enthused.

Enginethusiast Web | Instagram

DEVIN PAISLEY

Where are you based? The best motorcycling city in the world—Cape Town, South Africa.

What bike do you ride? I ride all the bikes. Jokes! I enjoy 250cc dual-sport bikes: I have a Yamaha TTR250 and a Honda XR250 Tornado that I ‘bought for my fiancé.’ I also have a Honda CX500 café and a Montesa Cota 349 project on the go.

Where do you get your inspiration? From the effect that motorcycles have on people. Motorcycling is contagious and once it’s in your bones… well, you know the rest. All sorts of bikes inspire me, but I love bikes with a story. In my eyes, a beat-up old thumper that has seen its fair share of action has as much character as a beautifully built custom bike.

How did you get started in motorcycle photography? I started riding in 2004 and I picked up my first decent camera in 2007 when traveling overseas. I guess as the two passions grew they found one another, helped along by my first attempt at a motorcycle business—Rebellian Custom Bikes. I was on the creative side and had to make our very average bikes look much better in photos.

Are you a full-time photographer? I also own and run a community motorcycle garage called the Woodstock Moto Co. in Cape Town. I started it three years ago as a place to store and work on my motorcycles, but it has evolved into a DIY motorcycle garage, café and general hangout that brings together people who are passionate about bikes. (Cue hipster comments on coffee and motorcycles).

Prior to this I had a brief stint trying to build bikes for money, and before that I worked as a model, which took me all over the world and exposed me to both photography and different motorcycle cultures.

What equipment do you use? I shoot on Nikon. My father was a photographer in the 70s and had a lot of old lenses lying around which fit straight on the new DSLRs. I keep it simple with primes—50mm, 85mm and 135mm. I also have a FujiFilm X100T as a pocket camera—what a great little snapper!

Your favorite shooting location? I’m spoiled in Cape Town. We have everything here—the ocean and mountains meet to create moto-heaven. Urban concrete jungle, perfect asphalt passes, dirt for days and everything in between. I try not to use the same location twice for a shoot—it gets tricky, but it forces me to keep exploring and keep finding gems.

Your favorite subject matter? Motorcycles, obviously! I enjoy telling stories through images. Whether that’s an off-road weekend adventure, or a motorcycle hoarder’s jam-packed garage, it’s the human emotions that I’m after. If I’m just shooting a bike the images need to make the viewer feel the emotions too.

Let’s talk postproduction—what’s your process? How do you feel about filters? I shoot in a way that keeps post to a minimum. I use Lightroom for editing and cataloging and only if I need to remove elements that are distracting to the viewer’s eye, I’ll use Photoshop. On set I only shoot natural light as it keeps equipment to a minimum and allows maximum flexibility.

Filters… hmm… I don’t really feel much about them other than cringe when some one goes way overboard. I guess I try to create my own style, which I then use as filters in my postproduction process.

What about Instagram? Hi my name is Devin, and I’m an addict. It’s an interesting topic and something I’ve been thinking of for quite a while. I am guilty of spending too much time on it and it is having a serious effect on my productivity. On the one hand the content being generated is inspirational and motivational—but on the dark side is it secretly makes you feel inadequate. I think that the next decade will be very interesting, looking at the psychological effects that social media has had on humans.

From a photography perspective it makes images so disposable, and it’s such a waste on such a small screen (I rock an iPhone 5). Images flash by in less than a second and people don’t have any concept of the amount work that goes into creating these visual feasts.

There’s another side of Instagram that is highly annoying—the stealing of images and the numerous accounts that re-post photographer’s work with out permission or credit. I’ve had some unbelievable conversations online with people who have no concept of image rights or respecting photographers. Don’t get me started on corporate brands sharing images without permission or compensation. Actually, never mind, apparently it’s good ‘exposure.’

Tell us about shooting the BMW R nineT Racer Wes from Bike EXIF is lucky enough to live in Cape Town too—so he’s always roping me in to do shoots. When he mentioned the R nineT rac… I interrupted him and said I was game. I like to be on set before the sun gets up to get that soft beautiful light and then shoot as it transitions to daylight. The morning of the R nineT Racer shoot I met Wes in the city and we were greeted by foggy and gloomy weather. Luckily, as we headed up to Table Mountain (Google it) we emerged from the fog onto the twisties.

I wanted to capture the bike in motion, as the shape of the bike just oozes speed, so we spent a lot of time on the panning shots (I always shoot real motion and don’t add blur in post). I also shoot from the hip while riding—but this can be dangerous and I’ve had a few close calls. The shoot took around two hours, but as photographers know, selection and editing takes much longer. This was shot on my old tank, a Nikon D700 with the following lenses: 18-35mm, 50mm f1.8, 85mm f1.8 and 135mm f2.

If you had one piece of advice for readers who like to shoot bikes, what would it be? Learn the rule of thirds, composition is critical, move around to find the sweet spot. Nail that and you’ll get banger shots, even with your phone.

Devin Paisley Web | Instagram

MIHAIL JERSHOV

Where are you based? London, UK, but I’m originally from Riga, Latvia.

What bike do you ride? I used to own a really cute, but gutless, 1979 Honda CG125, but I sold it and am currently working on getting my full license.

Where do you get your inspiration? I’m really inspired by work of some great photographers like Aaron Brimhall and Laurent Nivalle. I love the way they manage to capture the excitement of riding and make you want to be that person from the photograph.

How did you get started in motorcycle photography? Back in 2014 when I shot my first motorcycle event—DGR London—I got approached by people from Triumph, who wanted to use some of my images for their social media. This was a great incentive to get into more exciting events within the emerging custom motorcycle culture. The guys at The Bike Shed have also been a great inspiration and showed strong support.

Are you a full-time photographer? I work as a jewelry photographer for a company in London when I’m not shooting bikes.

What equipment do you use? Canon 6D DSLR.

Your favorite shooting location? I really love the combination of beautiful landscapes and pretty motorcycles, but to be honest, I don’t have one particular favorite location, I’m trying to make the most of what’s available. Good weather usually helps a lot.

Your favorite subject matter to shoot? It’s always inspiring to shoot someone doing what they genuinely love. So, motorcycles being ridden in their natural habitat must be it.

Let’s talk postproduction—what’s your process? How do you feel about filters? I use Adobe Camera Raw with some custom presets. I’m really picky about my colors.

What about Instagram? Love it to bits! Give me a follow at @mjstudio_uk.

Tell us about shooting Wheels and Waves This year’s Wheels and Waves was my third one so far, and it just never disappoints. If there is a perfect working holiday, for me it’s Wheels and Waves. You get the amazing landscape and architecture of the Basque country combined with thousands of amazing custom bikes rolling in from all over Europe, and sometimes much further. It’s always a real treat for me to shoot there.

If you had one piece of advice for readers who like to shoot bikes, what would it be? Find the imagery that inspires you, then get out there and shoot! You’ll get better if you’re persistent.

Mihail Jershov Web | Facebook | Instagram

Header image: Enduro Fun In Latvia, 2016, by Mihail Jershov.