#what if there were a version with a heaviness penalty or something for not sleeping. some incentive to actually do so

[ooc-themis-cattails]

With all due respect, o sagacious guardian, I am literally a cat.

[emwritesfootball]

Dirty Little Secret | Dominic Calvert-Lewin

It's midnight PST which means I'm so far past the deadline for @footballffbarbiex's Summer Writing Challenge but I don't really care. Please enjoy the millionth version of 'sneaking around with a rival' but with DCL. This one's for the babes: @sweetlikesugar9 @dclsbaby @domspeach

Word Count: 3,610

Warnings: light mentions of smut, sneaking around

- - -

Your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You wanted so badly to pull it out and reread the text you’d been sent an hour ago, but then Jordan would be suspicious and you didn’t want to try to cobble together some half-assed explanation that would ultimately end in disaster.

“Are you listening to me?” Jordan asked, huffing your name in frustration. “I swear, you’ve been spacy for the last week. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lied, rolling your eyes. Jordan gave you a disbelieving look, so you elaborated, “Work has been kicking my ass and I’m annoyed, okay? I know it’ll pass, but I’d just like it if you let me handle it on my own.”

Jordan’s face softened. “I’m sorry. And I won’t, alright?” When you nodded, he continued, “But you know that if you ever need me to step in and use my name, I will.”

“I know,” you said, giving him a teary-eyed smile. “You know how much I don’t want that, but if it comes down to it, I’ll let you know.”

“It’s just...you’re my little sister, and I worry about you.” Jordan wrapped his arms around your shoulders and pulled you into a hug.

“Yeah, yeah - I appreciate it.” You paused, finally remembering the conversation from earlier. “Wait, you were saying something about England?”

Jordan smiled, launching into the conversation. “I just got the call from Southgate today. He told me I’ll be part of this upcoming England squad.”

“What?! Jordan, that’s incredible!” You squealed, wrapping him up in a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Thanks. I was hoping I’d get the call-up, but with each camp, you never know. And I get older every year and-”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” you scoffed, waving him off. “You’ve done so much for the club and you deserve this. Take the win and move on.”

“I hate it when you’re right, you know.”

You giggled, shoving him playfully. “It feels weird to be the one dispensing life advice to my older brother, so don’t worry, it’s just as weird for me, too.”

You left Jordan’s place a little while later, promising to help him plan an England get-together once the rest of the squad was announced.

Once you were back home, you finally pulled up the text you’d been both excited for and dreading about replying to.

Dominic: When can I see you again?

Just as you started typing, the three dots on his end popped up and you couldn’t help the rush of excitement that pooled in your belly when his latest text came through.

Dominic: I just got good news. Come over and celebrate?

You: I’m on my way

***

The moment Dom opened his front door, his lips were on yours. He pinned you against the door, kissing you hungrily as his hands slid up your shirt. You moaned into his mouth, loving the way his body fit against yours as he swallowed the sound.

“What…” Your thought was cut off as Dom sucked on the sensitive spot on your neck. “What was the good news?”u

“Later,” Dom hummed, nibbling on your earlobe. “I wanna celebrate first.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” You giggled, the sound quickly turning to a breathy whimper as one of Dom’s hands slid between your legs. “Fuck, Dom! It makes sense - please just take me to bed.”

Dom smirked, grabbing your hand and leading you to the bedroom. He threw you down on the bed, kneeling between your legs as he started to undress you. It had only been a little over a month since the two of you started sleeping together, but neither of you could get enough of each other.

Your name was on his lips as he sucked a mark into your hip, watching as you dug your heels into the mattress while he kissed his way up your inner thighs before sucking on your clit and making you cry out. “You’re always so responsive for me,” he praised, chuckling as he slid two fingers inside you. “So sexy.”

“Please, Dom!” You whimpered, burying your fingers in his curls. “Please make me cum already!”

He responded to your pleas, flipping you over onto your stomach and driving his cock into you. One hand was around your throat, the other smacking your ass as pure filth spewed from his mouth with every thrust. Dom made you feel dirty in the best possible ways and it wasn’t long before you were cumming around his cock, feeling his cum coat your inner walls as he released his own orgasm inside you.

“So, what’s the news?” You asked as you cuddled with Dom, your head on your chest with one hand tracing patterns across his forearm.

“I can’t believe I almost forgot - I got called up to the England squad for this upcoming run of matches.”

He said it so casually that you almost didn’t register what he’d said. “Wait, what?”

“I got another call-up!”

Your stomach bottomed out and you thought you were gonna be sick. “Dom, that’s amazing!” You said, hoping he didn’t notice how preoccupied you sounded.

“Thank you!” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, a much more intimate gesture than the two of you usually did, but you didn’t question it. “You’ll come see me play, right?”

“Of course,” you promised, hoping you sounded sincere.

When he drifted off to sleep, you were still up, your mind racing as you tried to figure out how you were going to tell Dom that you were Jordan Henderson’s baby sister.

***

Anfield. Last Spring.

You flashed your Friends and Family pass to the staff, feeling a bit awkward as you looked for Rebecca and the kids. It wasn’t often that you used the ticket Jordan purchased, preferring the season tickets you’d gotten with friends ages ago on the off-chance you were recognized. The only time you did was for Derby matches, and today was no exception; the ‘Henderson 14’ burning a hole in your back as you took your seat.

The whistle blew and the match began. You were as nervous as you always were during Derby matches, your heart in your throat every time Jordan got the ball. You were always worried something would happen to him on the pitch, what with the countless injuries he’d had over the years.

You cheered along with the rest of the spectators when Mo put one in the back of Pickford’s net a couple minutes outside of the 20th. Richarlison scored moments before the end of the first half, tying it up before the start of the second.

There was a penalty call early on in the second half and your heart stopped as you watched Jordan step up to take it. He hadn’t been in good form to take a pen all season, having missed three of his four pens so far, and you peeked through your fingers, hoping the ball would slot right into the back of the net.

...

It didn’t.

It didn’t, and you were devastated. Suddenly, you didn’t want to be wearing your brother’s jersey anymore. You felt sick as all the friends and family of your brother’s teammates gave you sympathetic pats and hugs while the match wore on.

When Mo scored his second of the night, you screamed until you were hoarse. It wasn’t long after that and the final whistle was blowing and the match ended 2-1 in favour of Liverpool. You hugged Jordan tightly when he finally appeared, giving him a small smile. “Sorry about your pen.”

He stiffened and you instantly knew you’d hit a nerve. Sometimes, he was able to laugh these things off, but tonight apparently wasn’t one of those nights. “Fuck off.”

“You’ll get the next one, I’m sure.” You winced internally as the words came out of your mouth and Jordan’s expression darkened.

Your name was an angry growl on his lips as he said, “If you’re trying to make me feel better, just don’t. I don’t need your sunshine and rainbows opinion - if I want it, I’ll ask, got it?”

His condescending tone ignited your own nerve and you got in his face. “Go to hell, Jordan,” you hissed, your eyes involuntarily welling with tears at the angry confrontation. You turned on your heel and stormed off, ignoring Rebecca’s pleas for you to come back.

You sat in your car, waiting for the tears to subside. It wasn’t often that you fought with him, and to make matters worse, you’d been staying with him for a bit while you looked for a place of your own, so you couldn’t even avoid him at home.

Instead of going home, you headed to your favourite pub. It was low key, and you knew there probably wouldn’t be too many people in there so you could drink in peace. You changed out of the jersey, throwing on a t-shirt you found in the backseat of your car, not wanting to draw any more attention to yourself than usual.

“Can I buy the next?” A man’s voice asked, and you turned to find Dominic Calvert-Lewin sitting on the barstool next to yours.

“Sure,” you said, giving him a small smile. “As long as you let me buy the one after that.”

“You’ve heard, I take it?” Dom gave you a sheepish smile, ducking his head and looking away.

“I was there. Thought you had it for a minute there when that pen didn’t go in.”

“Me, too. I had a couple good shots in there, but none of them ended up going in.”

“I saw.” Dom gave you a look at your comment and the two of you burst into giggles. “Sorry, I just had to say it.”

“Clearly, you know who I am,” he started, his gaze raking over your body. “Can I at least get your name? You look so familiar...”

You debated giving him your middle name or a fake name altogether, but ultimately gave him your real name, conveniently leaving out your surname. He rewarded you with a full-blown smile that you felt all the way down to your toes; a smile that made you think about what it would be like to kiss those lips.

A couple hours later, and you didn’t have to wonder what it felt like to kiss him. His lips were on yours in the back of the Uber as the two of you headed back to his place. Another hour after that, and you were discovering all the other things his mouth and hands could do, loving the way his body felt against yours.

When you left in the morning, you felt like you had a secret that was only yours to keep - and Dom’s, of course - but this was you sticking it to your brother by sleeping with one of his rival club’s players while also getting some much-needed sex.

A week later, you were grinning down at your phone as you read Dom’s latest text.

Dom: So, when can I see you again?

***

Jordan’s House, Present Day

“We’ve got everything we need, right?” Jordan asked, frantically looking around his kitchen. The counter was fully-stocked with all the alcohol he could possibly need, there was enough food to feed an army, and everything was as it should be.

“Yes,” Rebecca confirmed, wrapping her arms around him and giving him a kiss. You shut your eyes and made a face, still not used to seeing your brother be intimate with his wife. “Everything’s going to be great. The team should be arriving in about an hour, so don’t go too crazy waiting for them, okay?”

Jordan nodded and you laughed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to do that. “Well, if neither of you need me, I’m gonna go nap in the guest room,” you announced. “Wake me if I sleep through my alarm?”

“Sure.”

You went up to the guest room, setting your alarm to give yourself half an hour to get ready for the party.

***

The party was on by the time Dom walked through the door. Someone put a beer in his hands and he made the rounds, catching up with players he hadn’t called teammates since the last call-up.

“Hey!” Hendo shouted, waving at Dom from his lounge chair by the pool. “Calvert-Lewin, as I live and breathe. How are you?”

Dom brought it in for a hug, laughing. “I’m good, I’m good.”

“I’d ask how you’re coping with losing to us yet again in the Derby, but I’m sure you had no problem finding some willing girl to console you.”

“Now that you mention it, I’ve been seeing this girl for a few months now. Hooked up with her the night we lost to you and haven’t really looked back.”

“Good for you. She coming to the matches?”

Dom shrugged. “Not sure yet. Haven’t really done much talking, if you know what I mean.”

Hendo smirked. “Nice.”

Just as Dom was about to say more, Rebecca came running over. “Jordan, have you seen your sister? I think we’re running out of drinks and she said she’d run to the store if we needed her to and well, we need her to.”

“Is she not up from her nap?” Hendo asked, his brows furrowing when Rebecca shrugged. “Okay, can you go see if she’s awake? I’ve kind of got my hands full.”

“Yeah, I-”

“Mummy!” One of the kids ran up to Rebecca, drawing her attention away. “Dom! Good to see you! Can you go wake my sister-in-law?”

“Sure. Where is she?”

Hendo gave him directions and Dom was off, searching for the guest bedroom.

“Hello?” He asked, lightly knocking on the closed door. When he got no response, he turned the handle and opened the door. “Hendo’s sister?”

***

Shit. You’d slept through your alarm and now someone was waking you up. And to make matters worse, they were calling you ‘Hendo’s sister’. “What?” You asked groggily, shifting.

“Your brother needs you.”

The voice sounded familiar but you were too tired to figure out why. “Okay. Can you turn on the light?” The sound of the switch being flipped and the light hit you. “Oh, fuck, that’s bright!” You covered your eyes, blinking rapidly to try to get used to the light.

You heard your name being whispered incredulously and you realized it was Dom standing in front of you.

***

Dom couldn’t believe it. Here you were, standing - well, technically sitting in bed - in front of him and you turned out to be Jordan Henderson’s little sister. “You’re…” He trailed off, unable to say the words.

“Yeah.” You looked down at your hands, not wanting to see the look on his face. “Jordan Henderson is my older brother.” You heard the door shut and you looked up, not expecting him to still be standing in front of you.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Dom asked, his expression blank as he crossed his arm and leaned against the door. “You’ve had plenty of chances to tell me and you haven’t. Why?”

“I just… I don’t know.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling as you struggled to find composure. “Everybody treats me differently when they find out who my brother is, so I don’t exactly go around telling everyone I meet that my brother is… who he is.”

“But we’re sleeping together! Hell, I’ve got you in my bed more than half the nights of the week and you still didn’t think to tell me?!”

“Dom!” You hissed, fear coursing through your veins. You didn’t want anyone to overhear him even though you knew they were probably too busy with the party. “I didn’t think to tell you because I didn’t think we were that serious!”

Dom looked furious. His jaw clenched and he stormed over to you, kneeling on the bed and taking your face in his hands. He kissed you hard, pinning you underneath him and all you could do was loop your arms around his neck and kiss him with everything you had. “How’s that for serious?” He asked, breathing heavily as he pressed his forehead against yours. “I’m here, kissing you in your brother’s house where anyone could discover us, and you don’t think I’m serious.”

“I-I get it now,” you stuttered, smiling at him. “Can we just wait a little while before we tell Jordan about us?”

“Just as long as we tell him before we have to go back to being rivals, okay?”

“Okay.” You gave him one last kiss. “Now you’re really gonna have to leave because I’m pretty sure Jordan didn’t send you here to come into the guest room and kiss me senseless.”

Dom chuckled at that. “He definitely didn’t. Pretty sure Rebecca was saying something about needing you to run and grab more alcohol, too? But the point is that we need to get you out of this bed and to the right people.”

***

You couldn’t stop staring at him. Dom was right across the room, chatting it up with Rice and Mount, laughing with the two footballers. He caught your gaze, giving you a subtle wink before turning back to say something to Rice. You watched him pull his phone out, your own vibrating in your back pocket moments later.

Dom: Meet me in the guest bedroom… Five minutes

You tried to keep the smile off your face, but it was impossible. “Who’s the guy?” Came Rebecca’s voice over your shoulder.

You gasped, hoping she didn’t see Dom’s name at the top of the contacts list before you shut it off. “Uh, nobody? Just a guy I’m sleeping with.”

Rebecca gave you a look. “Just a guy?” She rolled her eyes. “Not with that lovey-dovey look in your eyes, he’s not.”

“Okay, fine,” you sighed. “He’s not just a guy, but I’m not ready to introduce him to you and Jordan, okay? He’s just...not someone I would usually date and I don’t want Jordan to lose his shit, especially with these matches coming up.”

“I see,” Rebecca said wisely, giving you a knowing look. “Just don’t wait too long, because Dominic Calvert-Lewin looks like the kind of man who won’t wait around forever.”

“How did you-?” You asked, incredulous. “Nevermind, I don’t wanna know.”

Rebecca laughed. “Don’t worry - I won’t tell Jordan. That’s something you’ve gotta do.”

***

Two Weeks Later

“We can’t keep doing this,” Dom murmured in-between kisses in one of the empty rooms of Wembley. “Tomorrow’s the last match in this run of friendlies and I wanna catch Hendo on his good side when the two of us aren’t rivals.”

You giggled, the sound morphing into a moan as he kissed your neck. “After the match tomorrow, okay? I promise.”

Dom pulled away, a serious look on his face. “I’m serious. If you don’t tell him after the match tomorrow, I’m not sure I’ll be able to continue this.”

The pit of dread grew in your stomach. You wanted to tell Jordan but you’d never shown an interest in or dated any footballers before, let alone one of his rivals. It was going to be hard to convince him that you were serious about Dom, and for the first time, you realized you were serious about him.

~~~

The day of the match, you were in the stands in your ‘Henderson 8’ kit. The ‘Calvert-Lewin 18’ was underneath, your body tense with the anticipation - fear? - of telling your brother that you and Dom were seeing each other.

All your nerves went out the window the moment Dom came on and scored after less than five minutes of being on the pitch. You were on your feet with the rest of the stadium, cheering on your man as he celebrated with your brother.

The friendly ended England’s way and you were celebrating it like they’d won the World Cup. Without a second thought, you launched yourself into Dom’s arms, both of you giddy as he spun you around before setting you down on the ground and kissing you breathless.

“What the hell?!” Came Jordan’s voice, snapping you and Dom out of your own little world.

“Jordan, it’s-” you started, but your brother was furious.

“No, I don’t wanna hear it. The two of you?!” He glared at Dom. “At my party, were you talking about my sister? To me?! You’ve got some nerve, Dominic.”

Dom held up his hands. “I didn’t know she was your sister at the time, I swear!”

“It’s true: he didn’t,” you backed up your man, threading your fingers through his in a nonverbal show of support. “I knew who he was when I started sleeping with him, but he didn’t know who I was.”

Jordan rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what I hate more: that that’s actually believable or that I’m starting to be okay with this.”

“Really?” You asked, your eyes wide. You and Dom shared a look.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to completely love this - at least not for a year or more - but you better not hurt her, Dominic. I’m serious.”

Dom squeezed your hand, nodding with a serious expression. “Yes, sir.”

You held back your giggle at Dom’s response, not wanting to ruin your brother’s good mood. You let go of Dom’s hand to go over and hug Jordan, a bright smile on your face. “Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me; just make sure he doesn’t hurt you so I don’t have to hurt him.”

An hour later when you met Dom, you couldn’t stop smiling, making sure to stop in front of Wembley to kiss him one more time before he took you out on a proper date in public.

[adhoption]

Lord Haw-Haw

Today’s engrossing wikipedia rabbit hole was William Joyce, a Nazi propagandist who broadcast pro-German messages to Britain during WWII, known for his efforts as the infamous Lord Haw-Haw.

Highlights below:

Joyce has the distinction of being the last person in the UK to be hanged for treason. 

This fact is made slightly less impressive by the fact another man was hanged the following day... for treachery, which is apparently a completely different crime.

Why is treachery different from treason? Well, according to its article treachery was a new law introduced just for the war because treason was too hard to prove and prosecute. So they basically introduced an easier version of the same offence and just stuck a slightly different name on it.

The article for high treason is a treat. Alongside the obvious king-slaying, siding with the king’s enemies, and trying to disrupt the line of succession, a full half of the examples given are sexual: ‘sleeping with the king’s wife’, ‘sleeping with the heir to the throne’s wife’, and ‘sleeping with the king’s eldest daughter’ (any younger daughters are apparently fair game).

That sleeping around is apparently worthy of being listed with a death sentence, equivalent to killing the king, as part of a category of crimes that threaten the safety of the state. Monarchs were super jealous.

High treason is also separated from ‘petty treason’, which is the act of murdering a legal superior e.g. a servant killing their master, a wife killing her husband (!), or anyone killing a bishop, because apparently the UK used to be run on some wild set of chess-style rules.

You may be asking ‘hang on, isn’t that just murder anyway?’, which is the same question law-makers eventually figured out and then merged petty treason into the existing murder laws. It turns out that a pawn killing a bishop is not a different crime from a bishop killing a pawn, but a pawn or bishop killing a king or queen still is. 

Back to Lord Haw-Haw. People don’t even know where the nickname came from, or whether it was even intended to refer to Joyce. Supposedly it was hard to tell the difference between voices on the radio, and the article contains an actual list of people who “could have been Lord Haw-Haw”.

Other equally ridiculous nicknames were occasionally used to distinguish between obviously different speakers, such as the infamous Nazi “Sinister Sam”.

This confusion peaked with this absolute shambles - “In reference to the nickname, American pro-Nazi broadcaster Fred W. Kaltenbach was given the moniker Lord Hee-Haw by the British media. The Lord Hee-Haw name, however, was used for a time by The Daily Telegraph to refer to Lord Haw-Haw, generating some confusion between nicknames and broadcasters.” 

Joyce’s description isn’t flattering. He had been attacked by Communists and had a permanent scar from his mouth to his earlobe, just to give him that cliché look you might expect from your Hollywood Nazi villain. 

A face made for radio, then - but his voice wasn’t much better, only described as follows: “His distinctive nasal pronunciation of "Germany calling, Germany calling" may have been the result of a fight as a schoolboy that left him with a broken nose.” 

But not only did the Nazis look past that in appointing him as a radio broadcaster, he actually turned up to the interview with "a heavy cold and almost losing his voice” and they still hired him immediately. 

Who got him the interview? Dorothy Eckersley, who has her own wild story: she was the wife of the BBC’s programme planner Edward Clark, then left him for the BBC’s chief engineer Peter Eckersley (who was married, and had to resign because his boss was super religious and got the Archbishop of Canterbury involved), then fled to Germany and raised her son to be a Nazi broadcaster like Joyce.

Joyce was eventually captured in Flensburg, a town in northern Germany which was the capital of the Third Reich for its last few weeks of existence. There’s something satisfying in the idea of a random town (not even city) being the extent of the Third Reich, a national government of Nazis crammed into a town council hall still making proud noises like they’re going to take over the world.

Flensburg’s article is another unexpected treat. It begins by listing seven things the town is famous for in Germany. Surprisingly, being briefly chosen as the final world capital of the Nazi empire doesn’t make the list. Instead, Flensburg is known for its “large erotic mail-order companies” and “the greeting Moin Moin”. What a place to live.

Joyce was arrested by British forces including a returning German named Geoffrey Perry (born Horst Pinschewer), who had left Germany for England before the war and presumably changed to an English name to avoid anti-German sentiment. I’m on the guy’s side, but you have to appreciate the irony of a German-turned-Brit arresting a Brit-turned-German for treason.

Joyce’s arrest is summarised with the following incredible sentence: “After they asked whether he was Joyce, he reached into his pocket (actually reaching for a false passport); believing he was armed, they shot him through the buttocks, resulting in four wounds.” 

Can you imagine someone pitching a new cartoon Nazi villain? “I’m going to call him Lord Haw-Haw and give him a prominent scar down the side of his face” - sounds too unrealistic, how do the heroes beat him? - “oh, he accidentally gets shot in the ass”

But the trial was somehow an even bigger shambles. Effectively the prosecutors had no evidence that Joyce had actually been the Nazi broadcaster, apart from ONE person who said they had recognised his voice on ONE broadcast SIX YEARS prior to the trial. That was apparently enough to convict him for a capital offence.

Then the real plot twist: 

He wasn’t even British

“During the processing of the charges Joyce's American nationality came to light, and it seemed that he would have to be acquitted, based upon a lack of jurisdiction; he could not be convicted of betraying a country that was not his own.”

It turned out he wasn’t British after all, but had been born in New York to an Irish-American family and then raised and educated in Ireland (who were neutral in the war). Apparently nobody had thought to check this prior to charging him with treason. He was immediately acquitted on two of the three charges.

But the prosecutor argued that because Joyce had a British passport (even though he wasn’t British and had lied about his nationality to get it) he had the benefit of British diplomatic protection from it and therefore owed allegiance to the king, and should be sentenced to death for treason for working for the Germans.

Which is nonsense because a) he only went to Germany when they were at war with Britain, in which case having a British passport hardly protected him, b) if anything he was only safe in Germany because he wasn’t loyal to Britain, c) he was then brought back to Britain and now sentenced to death because he had a British passport, so it hardly brought him diplomatic protection, and d) it is entirely consistent for a non-British person working against Britain to lie to the British authorities to get a passport, so where exactly is the treason?

The article drops this incredible quote from historian AJP Taylor to sum it up: "Technically, Joyce was hanged for making a false statement when applying for a passport, the usual penalty for which is a small fine."

Finally, the article leaves us with the disgusting fact that “the scar on Joyce's face split wide open because of the pressure applied to his head upon his drop from the gallows.” Just in case anyone was wondering.

Thank you, wikipedia.

[goldenscript]

all’s fair

pairing: jeon jungkook | reader genre: rivals au / fluff word count: 5,655 description: sometimes people can surprise you and do absurdly kind things, even the ones you least expect... even your rival, jeon jungkook. author’s note: i don’t know a whole lot about baseball and its penalties so i used this source (x) as a reference. 

The first hit in the baseball is crucial. It sets up the rest of the game by getting the momentum going and initiating a form of liquid courage that either side may take a drink from to course through their veins and settle in their psyches. Not only can it make or break the batting team, but it’ll only reflect on the opposing team—sometimes it’s their pitch that does it for you or maybe it’s their pitch that can totally decimate you in three fell swoops—all in a matter of minutes.

You don’t think too deeply on the task at hand, fully aware of how much pressure is pushing into the forefronts of your mind and atop your shoulders like someone’s heavy forearm. Your eyes narrow at the familiar sight of sun-kissed skin, shoving it away as you meet their half-lidded ones and purposefully scowling in response to the smirk curved on his lips.

“Ready to lose, Y/N?” Jungkook asks, remaining firmly planted in front of you. His teammates are gathering behind him, yet he makes no form of acknowledgement in their regard. In fact, his doe-like, dark brown hues are trained on yours despite your best attempts to ward him off with your best scowl. “Aw, c’mon. Don’t pout just yet! You still have two more hours to do that!”   

You scoff, taking a huge step back. “You wish, Jeon. You’re gonna be eating my dust soon enough.”

This statement encourages deepens his smirk, eyes now flickering across your visage before giving a brief wink. “If that’s what helps you sleep tonight.”

“I hope you know that your version of charming is just- just annoying,” your nose crinkles, cheeks burning ever-so-slightly. His own visage feels like it’s a hair’s breadth away, with that scar on his cheek even more present than usual and the scent of his natural musk floating even closer—all of which making you subtly gulp because if he wasn’t so himself you would’ve actually liked this sort of standoff. Is that a mole underneath his lip?

You blink hard, attempting a better glower as his lips quirk at your half-hearted insult. “Don’t you have a tree to sleep under, you lemming?”

He pauses for a moment, brows slightly creasing and lips still twitching. “Don’t you mean jump off of?”

You shake your head, “If you jumped into the ocean, it might absorb your stupidity. Wouldn’t want that. It might poison the environment with all that masculinity.”

You almost want to give yourself a pat on the back at the way he pouts, but you know he’s just about recovered and ready to strike.

“I didn’t say anything you weren’t already thinking,” he states, snickering at the look of horror that suddenly strikes your visage. “And anyway, they haven’t called me over yet. I don’t wanna leave my favorite benchwarmer just yet.”

“Shut up, you’re not striking me out today—!”

He reaches over to pinch your cheek just to amplify his irritating cooing, but you smack his hand away and curse Mother Nature for even letting his limbs to stretch across that far. Even with a good meter from him, he’s still able to reach you. But as irate as he can make you, you’re also not that surprised that he’s trying to heckle you now. The game isn’t starting for another good ten minutes, so the ample time he’s given to terrorize you is more than enough for him to try and shake your relatively calm mind from your task for today’s company baseball game.

It’s your first time officially attending, and (unfortunately,) Jungkook’s as well. The two of you entered Big Hit Entertainment as interns about a year and a half ago and worked your way to a full position now that graduation was at the edge of both your fingertips. You had only known him from a distance—a star baseball player, a computer science major, and apparently, he could sing but you never cared to see if it was true no matter how much Jisoo or Jennie kept nagging—and you would’ve kept it that way too, but because you both entered for similar positions, you became much closer to him than you ever expected. Learning beyond the surface level things you heard would’ve made you two be something akin to friends, if only you both hadn’t  incited an undoubtable desire to outdo one another in any way, shape, or form with each of your respective competitive natures only aggravating things further. Not it’s your fault, however—!

“Oh, sorry to disappoint but I’m not pitching to you this inning, babe. But if I was, I’d definitely strike you out.”

You roll your eyes, brows furrowing only slightly. “Why…?”

“Who knows? Wilson really wanted to,” He gives a shrug, smiling at you though it isn’t like you have any clue who the hell Wilson is, or frankly, care to know. “Why, you want me to pitch to you? It’d be fairer not to put you on the bench already.”

You let out an exasperated laugh, “God, I think you’ve taken too many bats to the head. Your ego’s even bigger than the last time we talked.”

“Aw, you noticed!”

He’s just too damn confident for his own good, too stubborn, and most of all, too much of a damn airhead sometimes that you find it hard to believe he was able to withstand freshman year, let alone make it to graduation time. If he isn’t congregating the water cooler with his admirers over some new escapade he’s completed, then he’s sauntering in late with a lazy grin on his lips before he’s slowly falling asleep on the job. Given, the most the two of you had been given was paperwork as interns, his desire for napping only accumulated your stack of work to do, leaving him with even more down time. And if there’s anything you can’t stand other than cheaters, it’s lazy people. You worked hard to get to where you are, to establish some kind of name for yourself as a graphic designer (and boy did you work damn hard to perfect your craft) so you’d be damned to be shoved off with all the work just for someone else to take credit for it.

His supervisor Yoongi was far more relaxed than Seokjin was on you, but you can’t say you particularly minded the added pressure and instilled need for perfection. Clean graphics and easy access were difficult to achieve if you wanted to make them look good, and compared to coding systems, this wasn’t necessarily muscle memory for you. Each design always winds up different from the other, whether it’s subtle or major, each one takes up its own essence as a form of art. All the while, Jungkook’s field always remained meticulous and easy-to-do with his brain someone absorbing more things about circuit boards than actual filing, you grew to dislike him for so easily matching you when you were certain you worked harder.

Sometimes the recollection of the nature of this minor feud presents a deep frown onto your features, and as much as you’d like to help it, you can’t help but look up at Jungkook and glower. Yes, he’s good-looking and the type to fall into your category of what you classify as lazy people. But what gets you isn’t his looks or that damn category that’s almost rendered moot simply by how effortlessly things come to him, whether it’s working a foreign washing machine that one time you two were sent to Europe to sit in on a meeting or learning an instrument on the fly just for free drinks at this obscure bar in downtown. As much as you work to do your best, he’s always a few steps ahead, walking backwards and just beckoning you forth to challenge him with the tilt of his head. It’s just that sort of provocation that even level-headed you can’t ever ignore, because with that damn smirk pressed so firmly into your mind, you can’t help but try to catch him off guard for once too.

The sharp whistle shakes you free of the thoughts rushing through your mind, fears and anxieties aside that you might actually lose to Jungkook again, and the last thing you truly register before you’re staring at him jog over to Yoongi’s side of the dugout are his first two digits tapping you square in the forehead.

“See ya later, babe! Can’t wait for free drinks from you!”

And all you can do is blink and mutter under your breath, “What the fuck? Who are you, Itachi?”

You almost want to smack yourself square across the face for knowing where the endearment came from, but it’s one of those things that you shared in interest with the infuriating brunet, and that makes you want to smack him (even more than you already do) instead. In fact, there were quite a few things you both shared in common but you hated to consider just how much you would’ve gotten along with him had you two not been put in this circumstance even if the thought does send an uncomfortable pang across your already stuttering heart.

Hoseok glances over at you and snickers as you dumbfoundedly make your way around the gate, his arm slung around your shoulders as he mutters positive affirmations for your upcoming turn to bat. You’re grateful for him and his easygoing nature even if he looks about ready to inquire what just passed between you and Jungkook, giving his hand a squeeze instead as he leads you toward Seokjin.

“Try not to give her one of your pep talks, please,” Hoseok advises the broad-shouldered man, only to receive and incredulous in response.

“What’s wrong with my pep talks?!” His tone is loud even for him, but you don’t blame him from the nervous look he gives as his gaze flickers between his and the opposing team. “I-I’m just trying to give our young one motivation!” He looks to you, pushing Hoseok’s arm off (and ignoring the whine that passes your friend’s lips) to place his hand on your shoulder. “Don’t mess up alright? I chose you to do this ‘cuz you had one of the best swings last year and you and that damn Kookie kid were just messin’ around, so please try that again… yeah?”

You nod, coaxing your mind to relax and take this as you intended. If it’s one thing you can do, it’s exerting your own strength and driving yourself with one simple thing: beating Jeon Jungkook.

You only recall fragments of his cooing from earlier, boiling your blood immediately. He has an uncanny way of getting underneath your skin and clinging there like an eighth layer. His voice and his usual visage with a quirked brow and corner lip to match remain imprinted, replaying when you least expected it to, like one of those cringe worthy memories from middle school. His heckling worked, at least enough for you to shoot a glance toward his direction. He seems to already be staring, sending a wink and a thumb’s up your way as if he wasn’t hoping for you to crash and burn already.

The only thing that has you holding back on flipping him off is the sudden squeeze Seokjin gives you, leading you away from the dugout toward the field. You vaguely hear Hoseok cheering you on with a few other coworkers because you have to strain your ears just a bit as Seokjin continues, this time in a low whisper, “Just try your hardest, and… hit it out.”

You nod, relinquishing a breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding. “Y-yes, sir.”

He winks, giving you another squeeze like a token of good luck. “Call me Jin for today. Fighting!”

He hands you your bat from his other hand before jogging away and leaving you to determine the fate of the company game.

Looking up at the large expanse of the field is enough to send butterflies flocking across your stomach and the sound of your heart to reverberate across the confines of your chest. You’re hoping for the best, knowing that whatever may come it’ll be fine. Even if you don’t get a home run, you still have a strong chance that Hoseok will fly across the bases with Jinyoung and Hyungwon right behind him. All three outran Jimin and Kino at the company’s track event, if only Jungkook hadn’t managed to surpass them with that ungodly speed of his, and leaving you to watch as he sauntered over to the broken white line with a medal in hand and that stupid grin on his face in your direction.

I need to stop thinking of him. You wince, shaking your head and spotting him take second base as some other unnamed man takes up a pitching stance. I wonder why he wanted to pitch so badly…

Another unfamiliar face takes up first base, but there’s a particularly skeezy look on his face as he nods over at the pitcher that leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth and knot that tightens in the pit of your stomach.

I’m just psyching myself out. You decide, sending off a nod to Namjoon. He’s donning a black and white striped polo with a black cap to top off his referee aesthetic. The whistle in his mouth goes off right as soon as he receives a nod from the already positioned pitcher who was stooped a little lower than necessary.

“Play ball!”

Wilson gives the ball a good two upward tossing before he rolls back his arm twice and unleashing the ball. There’s something off about the pitch—!

Somewhere in his stance and the release sets loose a cloud of dust and a low arcing ball that comes flying narrowly at your head. Your body acts on its own accord, its flight-or-flight instincts kicking in, sending you tumbling backwards to avoid the collision. As you cough and fan away the flying specks of dirt, you hear the ball slam against the gate well past the umpire, Jennie who exchanges a look with you in mutual bewilderment.

“What the fuck?!” she says, retrieving the ball and lobbing it over at Wilson, who catches it easily. He’s a middle-aged man with an apparent competitive streak, and it makes your lips press into a thin line as Jennie moves forth to help you up. Hoseok and Jin are voicing complaints, more so the latter but it has Namjoon looking at Yoongi’s team with narrowed eyes. “Heads aren’t supposed to your targets!” 

“Oops, sorry!” Wilson’s voice is hardly apologetic, with even edges of a laugh choking out from the back of his throat. “Next time be careful, girly! Should I throw it softer for ya?”

You quip out of your own irritation and nerves, eyes narrowing, “Try pitching better instead!”

His expression changes ever-so-slightly, contempt washing over his eyes that differs his jabs from Jungkook’s you realize. The latter’s never showed any sort of malice towards you, and surprisingly, you don’t show any with him either. Between your usual quips and back-and-forth’s, he’s never done anything that would go beyond the established line of what is and isn’t okay. It’s weird to suddenly think of, and it’s even more abnormal to see said brunet watching with furrowed brows and bottom lip pulled between his teeth a few meters behind Wilson as well.

You let out a deep breath and try to ignore the possibility that perhaps Wilson’s trying to cheat and obtain success for Yoongi’s team, sending a nod to Namjoon that you’re good and ready even with the slight pain in your lower back from that particularly hard fall. Still, you prepare yourself for yet another out-of-the-box pitch as soon as you hear the familiar blare of the whistle. 

The second pitch isn’t exactly the same as the first one. This time it lacks the same intent to hit you square in the head, but the tawny hues that float in its wake ensues, erupting a violent cough and the quick downward swipe of your bat to avoid hitting air or that cursed ball. You fan away the surround cloud, hearing your teammates are now complaining to Namjoon, Jennie even joining in the mess of discordance that has one of your ears ringing.

“What the hell is your problem?!” you shout at Wilson. He looks annoyed alongside his lackey of a first baseman (who might’ve been one of his friends because you’ve had no recollections of that middle-aged man working at the company either), lips parted mid-complaint and legs moving toward you while you’ve already taken a step forward. Namjoon saunters between the two of you, halting further ministrations.

You catch a glimpse of Jungkook, meeting his eyes that actually have a glimmer of worry coating the dark hues and brows at remain furrowed as he aims a glare at the balding man. Even from this far, you can see him clenching his fist as Jimin jogs over to him but you don’t focus on what they’re saying when you hear Wilson shouting an obscenity about you.

“It’s not my fault she can’t hit a damn ball! Why are you penalizing me?”

“And it’s fair that you’re throwing dirt in your pitch?” You lean a hand on your hip, glaring at him. “That’s not my fault you feel the need to cheat!” 

“Cheat?!” He bellows out a laugh, gaze flickering between you, Namjoon, and his friend. “You have no proof. Right Dave?”

The one on the base nods, shouting an affirmation. You feel your frustration boil over as you point at the dirty covering his uncovered hand, looking at Namjoon in slight desperation.

“Joon, c’mon, look at his hand! There’s dirt all over it and there’s been two dirt clouds in both those pitches.” It isn’t fair that Yoongi’s team member is cheating, though the aforementioned looks visibly unhappy from the sidelines as he continues to watch the whole thing ensue on his side of the dugout. “You can’t tell me you just managed to get his hand dirty during his windup.”

“Oh?” Wilson raises a brow at you, a smug smile threatening to curl at the corner of his lips. “But isn’t it possible? I mean the umpire over there had to toss me the ball from over there and there’s plenty of dirt there.”

“And what’s your excuse about the first time huh?” You glare even harder, raising your own brow at him. “You had the ball in your position that whole time and you were crouched lower than necessary.”

“And where’s your proof, huh? I’m sure Dave over there can vouch for me and say I was at perfect crouching level y’know—”

“Why you goddamn cheater—!”

“Okay, enough!” Namjoon lets out a deep breath, looking between you two with a pained expression. He looks at you with upturned brows, already telling you his verdict which makes your heart clench. “I’m sorry, Y/N. But you do need proof other than what you saw, y’know?” He then glances at Wilson, “And if you can have Dave c’mere and confirm what you’re saying then we can proceed alright?”

You don’t even bother listening to the three of them, giving a shake of your head before jogging back to your position with brows furrowed more than ever and a disheartened spirit because people like Wilson and his friend Dave were absolute pieces of crap. Even if it was a simple game of company baseball, there shouldn’t be a need to cheat or a need to demean your way of playing just because of your sex. It pisses you off even more that his subtle form of cheating has gone unpunished, and it pisses you off even further that his teammates are at a loss of their own words, namely Jungkook though you know he couldn’t have known. He’s always been big on integrity, probably even more than you since this is his sport, but he still remains locked in position with a gaze that briefly meets yours and flickers back to Wilson’s with narrowed lids.

You don’t miss the way Wilson and Dave pass a high five to one another, a slight sheen to the way their hands make contact that has you screaming cheater cheater cheater in your head. It’s not clear what it is but the oozing substance is enough to slick his palm as he tosses it upward and gets ready for his ridiculous windup. The blatant smirk on his lips that has you feeling sicker than ever once you’ve comfortable positioned your bat and give a roll of your joints to loosen up the built-up tension slowly stiffening your body.

You’re already expecting the worse to come, and boy does it, the immediate flinging of his ball is almost too fast for you to miss and it throws you off just how quickly it cuts through the air but you prepare yourself enough to pull your bat back and let loose a swing at just the right time to watch it fly over his crestfallen face. You drop your bat and sprint down toward first base in a flurry, allowing the screams and cheers to fuel to go faster. You can see the rest of the outfielders trying to regain their composure and get you out up ahead, barely acknowledging the way Dave kicks up some dust in Namjoon’s direction and sticks his foot out right as you pass the white padding. 

Suddenly, you feel like you’ve gone airborne, using your knee and hands to cushion your fall in an all too painful fashion. The prickle of your nerves is enough to remind you of the pain in your lower back, your brain goes haywire from the sudden attack and the pandemonium erupting from your end of the bleachers. It seems even the opposite end is going a little wild as well. But all you can think to do is try to stand, even if it means wincing as you do so.

You shoot a glare at Dave, spitting a simple, “What the fuck?” at him that only gets a smirk in response. There’s a rush of people that come forth, game going back on pause once Namjoon has blown his whistle.

“Are you okay?” Jin immediately says by your side, helping you stand straighter. Hoseok has even come up, sending daggers at Dave and even Wilson, who’s dared to step up with feigned innocence on his wrinkled features. Apparently, the blatant cheating attempts hadn’t gone unnoticed on your side of the ballpark, which made you feel a lot more grateful among the raging endorphins now rushing to your body to soothe your aches.

“Yeah, girly. You good?”

You bite back the insult on your tongue and choose to look at Jin with a small smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. He,” you point a finger at Dave. “tripped me, however.”

“Did you hear that, Joon?!” Jin shouts as the blond-haired man makes his way over. “She was tripped! Call a penalty on ‘em already, why dontcha?”

Namjoon sighs, nodding. “Well—!”

“What?! Penalty?” Wilson pipes up, features now a devoid of innocence. “That’s hardly fair. What if she just fell?”

“We all saw your friend stick his foot out as she was passing!” Hoseok pipes in, focusing his glare on Wilson now. “Now, that’s hardly fair.” 

“You’re just biased.” Dave added simply, giving a shrug. Jin moves you away from the older man, emphasizing another glare his way as Hoseok follows you two with furrowed brows. “She’s your teammate, of course you’re gonna vouch for her!”

“I can vouch for her too,” Jungkook says, entering the fray from the corner of your eye. He looks at you from beside Hoseok, “You ‘kay?”

You just nod, flashing him a small smile.

“See!” Jin says, pointing to Jungkook. “Even their own teammate can vouch for her. Joon, c’mon!”

“Well, yeah. You don’t even work at the company, so I’m going to have to ask you to step out.” Namjoon says sternly. “As for Wilson… well, you’re gonna need to go with Dave—”

“—You’re kidding,” Wilson’s jaw drops, bewilderment written all over his visage. “No one else is gonna pitch if not for me! This brat is just playing around…”

“That’s ridiculous,” you scoff, shaking free of Jin’s grip. “You and Dave are cheating! At a company game, like how is that even a little bit okay?”

He glares at you, turning his full attention on you. “You, listen here—”

“Enough,” Namjoon says, fully turning his attention on Wilson. “I’m gonna ask you to leave, Wilson. Go with Dave.”

“But—!”

“I’ll pitch to her,” Jungkook speaks up, stepping forward with a glare at the aforementioned man. “We’ll live.”

Despite all your certainty that your racing heart is coming from the adrenaline pumping through your veins, you can’t help but feel a different way in seeing Jungkook meet your eyes with an undeniable softness as Hoseok and Jin walk Dave and Wilson off the field. Instead, Yoongi takes first base, sending a wink your way as you and the brunet walk to your positions together.

“I’ll pitch to you. Just hit it, alright?”

As if the words had any other weight, you just nod with a laugh. “Alright, pitch to me, Jeon. I’ll even hit a homerun.”

He grins as you pick up the bat, a newfound resolve coursing through your veins. “I’m counting on it, babe.”

The whistle blares, prompting Jungkook’s right foot to step forward onto the rubber and starts his windup. One rollback goes by and then another, and he hollers, “Y/N, this one’s for you!”

Then, he lets it fly.

/

Two hours later, your team wins!

In celebration another two passes by, you and the rest of the group have found yourselves congregating inside a chicken and beer place with lighter hearts and smiles now that you’re being graced with glorious sustenance. It’s a lot lighter now that the stiffness of competitive has flown overhead like the many fly-high’s that went back a few hours ago. Even as you find yourself seated between Hoseok and Jungkook, you can’t say you entirely mind how close the brunet has been since the end of the six innings.

His first immediate attention was to go up to you with ice packs and a large, icy water bottle in hand, and what parts his lips aren’t a pout or a degradation of your sporting performance but rather a compliment that settles deeper into your mind than it usually would. In fact, you can’t remember the last time a compliment of his struck you, but the rarity makes them mean a lot more even if it is coming from the one guy you’ve been trying to beat since your entrance into the company as a mere intern.

For some reason, the rest of the nights goes on by as normal. Certain quips pass between you two despite the lingering gazes and touches that pass without so much as a blink of an eye. You don’t have a clue what has changed, but you feel it like the heart pang from earlier, it’s there. When you look at Jungkook, it’s like your boiling blood has simmered down and it’s not quite as infuriating as it is nice to see him without the feigned contempt that you’re used to putting up. At least as you think back to how you and Wilson were going at it, as strangers no less, you see that there’s a stark contrast between what went down on the field and what usually goes down between you and the so-called irritating brunet.

He glances at you, eye twinkling with a slight glaze of tipsy and a lopsided grin on his lips, and it send yours heart in a frenzy. You smile back, pushing back your plate as you get ready to go. You’re a little buzzed yourself, but you’ve just about had your fill of entertainment with the rest of your coworkers, already having enough of your fill on what they’ve been up to, what’s supposed to happen in the next few weeks, and even the latest drama between coworkers shacking up—all of which had made no attempts to deny or really confirm any of the statements, that’ve left you in teary-eyed giggles and a stomach fuller than your poor college student abdomen could handle.

“Going already?” Jungkook asks, following you as you grab your purse and shove on your shoes completely.

You nod, “I’m so tired, so I’m done!” When you see him shoving his shoes back on and grab hold of his black Nike back, you raise a brow at him. “You’re leaving too?”

“Yup,” he replies, giving a wave to everyone else before hooking an arm around your shoulders. “See you guys!”

There’s a chorus of whoops and hollers at the sight of you two so close, even Hoseok’s eyes are swimming with an “I-told-you-so” but you’re opting to believe that it’s the buzz of the Corona over anything else. Though you shake your head and roll your eyes at everyone else, you allow Jungkook to lead you out of the restaurant and towards the bus stop.

“They’re gonna think we’re shacking up too, y’know,” you note, leaning against the bench. He sits beside you carefully, but his arm still remains around you. Truthfully, you don’t mind it in the slightest either. The warmth and the scent of his musk float across the breeze passing the two of you, giving you all the more reason to cuddle into his side despite how much your rational side is asking you what the hell you’re doing with Jeon Jungkook’s arm wrapped around you.

He gives a small shrug, glancing over at you and subtly pulling you in closer. “True.”

“Don’t you mind?” you ask, frowning just a little as you raise your head to meet his eyes.

“No, I don’t mind at all actually,” he shakes his head. “You?”

“I mean… I don’t mind, I guess.”

He actually looks a little surprised, giving a small laugh. “Really? You’re okay with people thinking we’re together?”

You simply nod as if the answer had been there all along, “I mean you’re not completely horrible.”

“Pinch me.”

Your brows screw together and your head tilts, “What?”

“This must be a dream, because you’re actually being nice to me right now.”

You giggle, shrugging your shoulders. “M’serious! You’re not bad, Jeon. I think today made me realize something about you.”

“What?”

“You’re… a really good guy,” you answer softly. Thinking over the course the day and even some days prior where the two of you didn’t share your usual quips, where only your irritation and stress was all you could focus on, and how easily he could turn your day around. Not just out of frustration or what you thought it was, but when you think of him, everything else gets forgotten. Somehow he manages to make your day, whether it’s doing something ridiculously childish to your computer like sending little emojis to the chat or even turning some of your graphics into stickers, you can’t deny that he’s a decent human being, and it’s ironic that dealing with someone as horrible as Wilson made you realize that. “Thank you for today. You didn’t have to, but you defended me and helped me out so yeah.”

“Of course I did,” he gives your arm a small shake.

“Why?”

He looks at you a smile threatening to curve on his lips, “Isn’t it obvious?” The longer your silence goes, the more his smile grows and he lets loose an airy laugh. “I like you!”

“What?!” You blink, feeling your heart thundering even louder. Thinking back through everything, it actually kind of makes sense. You just brushed away the thought because you figured he just loved to bug you. “You do know you’re twenty-one right? Not twelve?”

He rolls his eyes, a breathy laugh falling past his lips, “So? You just made it so easy to be like that. It’s cheesy but you just make me want to be a lil’ shit. It makes you smile and laugh. I like seeing that.”

The sudden realization is weird, but the thought of the day and all other positive moments with Jungkook keep you quite comfortable. You suppose the weird sensations have been your body’s way of telling you that you like this guy a lot, that as much as he can make you scowl that there has never been any ill-intent behind any of the jabs, and that sitting there beside him with the two of you slightly tipsy just makes you lean even closer just to catch a glimpse of those small things that have captivated you about him.

He blinks at the sudden action, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

You shake your head, “I just want to do something… can you close your eyes?”

His brows furrow for a moment, thoughts probably racing before he decides to do so after a moment. You see the slight pucker to his lips, eliciting the warmth on your cheeks but instead of leaning in to press your lips to his like you want to, you tap his forehead with your first two digits with a wide grin curved on your lips.

His eyes open, widening for a moment, then he laughs and pulls you into an embrace.

“Damn, you really had me right then.”

“I know, but we’ll have plenty of time to do that so don’t be too disappointed.”

“Okay… wait, what?”

At the sight of the bright lights of the bus, you pull him up with you and walk the two of you toward the open doors. Turning back to him as you swipe your bus pass twice, you wink, “You heard me.”  

To say the least, neither of you two could hardly wait.

[modernart2012]

Sing Sing (Lovin’ You)

1.  There’s something to be said about waking up on Saturdays. It’s not the sudden blaring of his alarm, and the dusty echo of an otherwise empty apartment. It’s warm, on Saturdays. And not just because Friday night was his standing arcade night appointment with Hizashi, and he inevitably ends up at the Yamada’s home, in Hizashi’s bed - only because he can never get warm enough on the spare futon - for the night. Normally, he’s cocooned in blankets and Hizashi, tangled up so thoroughly that sometimes he finds stray golden hairs on his brush days later. So when he wakes up to slight jostling this Saturday, he’s not surprised to find it’s Hizashi leaning over him as he extracts himself from the Gordian Knot they’ve become. What’s different is he’s humming soft and low.“Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you; caught up in circles confusion is nothing new,” the words flow in steady soothing cadence, not disrupting the haze of sleep Shōta’s surfacing from. Shōta stretches and yawns in response, because if Hizashi is up then Yamada-san has probably made pancakes.

Hizashi keeps humming the tune, skipping lines at will, but his eyes remain sleep soft and quiet, not yet sparking with his normal energy. Shōta sits up to finish stretching, joints popping and crackling across his torso. “Good morning,” he greets and is returned.

It takes until halfway through his pancakes that he pinpoints exactly what was odd about Hizashi’s humming. “That song you were humming this morning - it was in English, wasn’t it?”

Hizashi startles around a mouthful of pancake, then after a moment to finish chewing and swallowing, “Yeah.” He looks awkward, off kilter, as if he wasn’t expecting to be caught.

Shōta takes pity on him, “You sounded good. The English I mean.”

Hizashi brightens, then leers at Shōta playfully, “Yeah? I’ve got a talented tongue, what can I say.”

Shōta huffs, amused despite himself. “You can say you’ll help me with the English assignment due Monday, and I won’t let Tensei know that you can sing.”

Given that Tensei is often dragged to karaoke group dates, this is a good threat. Hizashi pales and quickly agrees to the terms.

2. The next time Hizashi sings for Shōta, it’s after their final Sports Festival at Yuuei. They’re third years, and in a completely unforeseen turn of events, it ends up with the both of them in Recovery Girl’s office with heavy injuries. Shōta himself is in traction, both legs in casts after going up against a Mutation type quirk that produced skin like stone. Hizashi, similarly, is banged up, his neck supported by a brace and his back strapped to a board to ensure that he doesn’t further cause damage to his bruised spine. Shōta is doped up on pain medications, because Recovery Girl can only do so much when her patients are exhausted, and he’s pretty sure he’s hallucinating. There is no other explanation for the flying reptiles. (Unless it’s a Quirk?)

He’s about to cross check with Hizashi on the status of the reptiles when he hears soft raspy humming float across the room. Hizashi’s voice, usually loud and exuberant at all times, and not bad to listen to normally, was downright angelic when he sang - something Shōta knew he could never tell Hizashi for want of never live it down. While Shōta didn’t mind Hizashi’s near constant chatter, it’d be awful if he knew that Shōta couldn’t imagine a world without that voice booming in his ear at some point in the day. “If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world? I don’t quite know how to say how I feel; those three words are said too much  they’re not enough….”

Shōta’s aware enough that this time it’s English, but with the way his head is still aching, he’s having trouble understanding the words. Hizashi was always better at English anyways, so he’s already at a disadvantage. Maybe he should study English more, ask Hizashi for tips? Shōta yawns and decides to do so when he wakes, letting the soothing sound of Hizashi’s voice carry him off to restful sleep.

3. The worst part of being 20 and drunk is realizing Hizashi. There’s more behind that, but Shōta’s having a hard time with words, and what other words can explain … everything. There are no good words for describing how Hizashi’s eyes sparkle (not plain green, something like a gemstone, rare and unique), or the way his hair looks when it’s down (bright and soft like the fuzzy glow of a baby duck, but shiny and vivid like spun gold threads), or the general energy (aura?) of Hizashi. Effervescent doesn’t cut it, but there’s not anything better? Shōta turns to glare at Nemuri, who is also drunk, “Japanese is a pathetic language. There are no good words.”

Nemuri pokes him in the ear from her spot on the floor, missing his cheek by a solid mile, “Don’t you suck at English, though?”

The only appropriate response is to blow a raspberry at her.

He doesn’t get retaliation from Nemuri in response, though, because he ends up with a faceful of cat paw. Kurage was just as much of an jerk as he was, and they got along beautifully except for the occasions wherein Kurage decided that he needed as taste of his own medicine. God, he loved his cat.

Shōta is startled out of his consideration of whether he should risk getting clawed in the face in order to cuddle his cat with the soulful tones of Hizashi, singing along with some song piped in through the speakers. It was still a rare event to hear Hizashi sing, but he was good and Shōta was always captivated. “I’m not looking for somebody with some superhuman gifts, some superhero, some fairytale bliss; just something I can turn to, somebody I can kiss, I want something just like this….”

Another English song, and with only him and Nemuri and Tensei there, it felt like a present. More so than the times he busted into spontaneous song, usually his favorite (read: latest find) song of the week. Hizashi only ever sang when he felt especially at ease, and it always highlighted his soft spots. Shōta turns over onto his stomach to cushion his head on the couch arm so he can watch. He’s rewarded with a playful wink from Hizashi with a warmth that was unusual, and if he weren’t already red from the sake he was sure he’d be blushing.

It’s only later when he’s crawled into bed and let Hizashi arrange them for maximum octopus impression does he have a realization about the songs Hizashi sings, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. He’ll try to recall it in the morning.

4. Shōta hates Fridays now sometimes, because Friday means Hizashi has his radio show to produce, and that means they don’t head for the arcade. Hizashi always has a talk segment, generally about something ostensibly music related but sometimes something he and Shōta discussed during the week. During those times, Shōta’s “his Number 1 Listener” and it satisfies the cat-possessive portion of his soul, outright luxuriates in the attention. But otherwise, Fridays now interrupt their standing arcade date appointment, which used to be the highlight of Shōta’s week because he’d get all of Hizashi’s attention for a bit.

This week is almost worse, because Nemuri and Ectoplasm made a bet (that they’ve kept from even hinting at in front of Shōta, which is suspect) with Hizashi who had lost - somehow, because Hizashi has never in Shōta’s memory lost a bet - and he has been close lipped about his forfeit ever since. He had mumbled something about it all being on his show, so Shōta tuned in a little earlier in order to be sure to catch the whole show and not skip the cold open as he usually did.

Shōta can imagine the way Hizashi’s tipped back in his chair as he enthusiastically greets his listeners, the way he would light up from the inside with the focused energy of “Present Mic” live on air. It was different from fights with villains - there was no urgency or adrenaline, no crash, this was pure buoyancy that set Shōta’s veins to fizzling too. That fizz and the usual Hizashi general fizz usually compounded into something that felt like he’d ingested nitroglycerin - a racing jittery feeling that bounced around his insides while he outwardly remained calm.

Time hasn’t dulled that regular Hizashi feeling, only given him a chance to realize it’s always been there and he’s only just not managed to notice. He doesn’t want to give a name to it, because his grandmother always said names have power, but he knows. What to do about it, that’s an entirely different question though.

The cold open ends, leading into the opening theme of the show. A rock number Hizashi spent an entire weekend mixing, having Shōta listen to different versions until he finally had it prepared. That had been a good weekend, one spent entirely sleeping and with Hizashi (sometimes simultaneously, which… in retrospect should have clued Shōta in because he had been altogether too happy to wake up to Hizashi), eating takeout ramen and gyoza with extra chili oil for both.

A few of the latest top 40 hits played, interspersed with Hizashi giving his thoughts (some highly unflattering) on the song. A few requests are thrown in, with light banter between Hizashi and the fan on the line, then it was time for an advertisement break. One is for an “Eraserhead eraser! Completely erases all mistakes just like Quirks!” Shōta internally snickered, because that was the best piece of misinformation he had ever been induced to produce. Such a great logical ruse!

Then Hizashi was back on, his animated tone greeting his listeners, then growing a little subdued. “Recently, I lost a bet with some colleagues about a certain topic. The penalty was to sing a song for my Special Person. So, um. Here I go? I hope you, and especially you my Most Precious Person, enjoy.”

He strums a guitar, humming the opening along before beginning to sing along fervently.  With his gut sinking through the floor - since when did Hizashi have someone like that? Why had he never said? - Shōta listens carefully, recognizing the song as one Hizashi had wanted to play but ultimately rejected because of its age.

Hizashi carries into the chorus, “If you gave me a chance I would take it, It’s a shot in the dark but I’ll make it, Know with all of your heart, you can’t shame me; When I am with you, there’s no place I’d rather be.” If that wasn’t a full on confession, Shōta didn’t know what it was. He stares at the not insignificant number of papers he had yet to grade, shoves them into a messy pile in a drawer, then grabs his coat and all but flees the office.

If the villains he apprehends that night are a bit rougher for the experience than is norm, then no one comments.

5. “Feelings suck” is the sum total of what Shōta learns in the next few weeks. He did his best to act like everything was normal, that he didn’t know Hizashi had a romantic interest that wasn’t him, but every time he did he’s plagued by thoughts of Hizashi’s “Precious Person”. Who were they? Did they know? Did they suspect? Did they love Hizashi too? Know about his need to cuddle at night? The way he hated shrimp and lobster for looking too much like bugs? His hatred of strawberry milk, but love of raw strawberries? In the end, it was too much, and he inevitably fled with thin excuses. After a few days Hizashi started looking like someone had kicked his puppy and Nemuri was frowning at Shōta like he had done something wrong. Saying he was going out with his friends (who weren’t also Hizashi’ friends or originally Hizashi’s friends) didn’t work that well, because beyond his agency colleagues, he didn’t know very many people, plus Hizashi worked at Yuuei too and if he dragged Thirteen out any more he was sure Thirteen was going to Black Hole him. Which meant the only other option was to take more shifts during the night. Beyond the fact that this netted him a more surefire way to avoid Hizashi, it also netted him extra cash, which had the opposite effect because his first instinct was to buy things for Hizashi. Shōta stares at the pair of brand new, latest version headphones Hizashi had been gushing about, the ones that had the best audio clarity and sound truity as compared to the other headphones of similar style on the market. They had cost quite a bit, but Shōta was flush with cash anyways and the extra padding from his recent shift increase was just begging to be spent. Maybe it would make up for the forlorn look Hizashi had been sporting recently?

That thought was put on hold as a massive shape flew through part of the train carriage. It wasn’t a high traffic time, in fact only a handful of people were riding, which was lucky. What wasn’t lucky was the dark shadow that was also flying towards the carriage. That was definitely Hizashi, dealing with the villain in a rather harsh manner. Which made almost no sense, since Hizashi wasn’t much for shadow heroics (though the harsh treatment… that was usually only for heinous criminals.) What was he doing hero-ing when there was no adoring media, no spotlight, no fame or newspot to be gained? Was he doing night shifts so he could have more time with his Special Person? The thought sours almost as soon as Shōta thought it. He frowns and focuses on the headphones for the rest of the ride home.

Except, he doesn’t make it home. He’s just entering his apartment, Kurage twining about his feet, when he receives the call. The voice on the line is collected and professional, imparting the bare minimum of details before Shōta hangs up and races back the way he came.

He must have looked like a madman running full tilt into the lobby of the Shūzenji Hospital in Kita ward, breathless from having sprinted the whole way. “Pre-Present Mi-c,” his chest rose and fell in a staccato beat, fighting for air against the burn in his muscles. The receptionist looks at him like he’s some sort of monster, her lilac skin fading to lavender as she froze. He bears down on her like she’s a troublesome student, eyes sharp, her skin going grey, “I-I was cal-led. A-About Pre-se-nt Mi-Mic. He-he w-was admitted here.” He inhales sharply, then exhales, “His room number?”

The receptionist sags relief clear from the slack of her spine to be out of his gaze. “I’ll need to see identification before I can tell you that.”   

Good, he wouldn’t have to file a complaint with Recovery Girl that her receptionists were shoddy and letting anyone up into recovering heros’ hospital rooms. He fishes out his ID, and waits impatiently for the receptionist to check the information. When she finally returns it, he is jittering in place, and barely hears the room number before he is flying down the halls and opting to dash up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.  

He slows down on the floor though, because there are obviously other patients in the ward. He slips around the night nurses, nodding to the ones he recognizes. After all, this is the floor for those who are under the effect of a Quirk gone haywire, usually overexertion of their own but sometimes under the effect of a Villain’s Quirk. He doesn’t know which he is in for, and hoped if it was Hizashi’s Quirk run amok that he had already lost his voice from too much screaming. Or that the nurses had managed to get his multi-directional speaker off him. Recovery Girl would not be happy having to heal him from broken eardrums.

Shōta meets a nurse at the door to Hizashi’s room, Satō, who is generally sent to deal with heroes due to his six arms and infinite patience with which to deal with difficult people. He nods politely at Satō, who returns the greeting with a perfunct, “Eraser.” He looks dead inside, which some might say was a step up from his usual vaguely fed up with life countenance, but must also speak to the hassle Hizashi has become. Shōta makes note to sent Satō a fruit basket, one with a melon.

Shōta clears his throat, “How is he?”

Satō stars at him with dead eyes, “Truth Quirk plus Singing Quirk. Now he can’t stop singing - real songs! - about whatever he’s thinking about, and it has to be true.” One set of his arms crosses itself, and Satō looms, “It’d be best if you just took him home.”

That. That was not a suggestion and Shōta makes note to not send a fruit basket. Satō does not deserve a fruit basket. When he enters the patient room, however, he wants to flee and pretend he was never there. He’s caught Hizashi mid-song, “Where did I go wrong? And how can I make it right? Tell me where did I go wrong? You know I want to make it right, and make you come back it me.” Then his eyes land on Shōta and he practically wrenches his jaws shut, face going blank and lovely croon abruptly cutting off.

Shōta tilts his head, a slightly worn smile tipping the corners of his lips as if he hadn’t just caught Hizashi singing, “This is a jailbreak. Let’s head home.”

There is a momentary panic in his eyes, and Hizashi’s mouth opened before he clamped it shut again and nods. They leave the hospital, and Hizashi seems determined to sing some inane anime opening about hamsters. When that was over, he switched to the themes for some anime with ninjas, and then some song about …. samurai hearts? Shōta had stopped keeping track around the time Hizashi partook in a rap battle about… the lights in the night sky?  Something like that. At least they were at Shōta’s apartment, and Hizashi couldn’t bellow anime songs.

Kurage greets them from her perch on the refrigerator, or at least greets Hizashi. She pointedly ignores Shōta, probably for the betrayal of not petting her earlier before he had to run out. Had he ever mentioned his cat was an asshole? She was perfect.

Also, an effective distraction for Hizashi, who was singing a children’s song about an adventurous cat. It was an interesting trick, to consciously think only of a specific song to get around the Quirks. Commendable even. But he missed Hizashi’s voice -screeching, solemn, lilting, and mellifluous, all the different ways he expressed himself so wholeheartedly. Hopefully this would wear off soon.

Shōta was jolted out of his musings by Hizashi grabbing his sleeve as he passed by. His voice is rough with overuse, quiet and shaken, “Sh-ōta, did - did you get - get those?” He sounded like he was actively fighting against the Quirks affecting him, and the way he sagged boneless against Shōta belied how much energy he had spent to achieve it. Shōta turned to follow his line of sight, to the headphone box he had left carelessly in the genkan.

Hot embarrassment floods through him, and he could feel the flush spread across his face and down his chest. “Ah- uh, Yes. I did? They’re for you.” He winced internally at the way that sounded.

“Oh,” Hizashi sighs, and whatever had been sucking him of energy these past few weeks seemed to disappear. He smiled tenderly, then moved so quickly Shōta had no time to react. His face ends up buried in the junction of Hizashi’s neck and shoulder, Hizashi hugging him tightly like he was a ghost liable to drift away at the slightest breeze. He’s singing again, softly as if he’s afraid of being overheard. “We watch the season pull up its own stakes, and catch the last weekend of the last week.  Before the gold and the glimmer have been replaced, another sun soaked season fades away.  You have stolen my heart. You have stolen my heart.”

Shōta fists his hands in Hizashi’s jacket, glad that Hizashi couldn’t see his face as his world imploded. He’d become practiced enough at English at this point to know the words, and their meaning, and what they meant strung together and his heart was exploding like a star into so much dust, uncontrollable and pure. This song was clear, direct and the only thing he could think is, “Oh, he’s in love with me too.”

+1. The next few days were like drifting anchorless and weightless through a bank of clouds. It was surreal, unbelievable even. How? When? Why? Of all the manically unpredictable things - him? Oh, that time on the radio - was for him? He chased himself in circles of thought, ignoring the frowns Nemuri sent his way, the terrified way his students cowered, and instead lost himself in the near permanent giddiness suffusing into his bones and Hizashi’s smiles.

Then it hit him around the time he’s trying to make tonkatsu ramen from scratch - he had never given any indication that he felt the same. “Oh, Endeavor-dammit,” he informs Kurage, who yowls in agreement. Shōta feeds her a piece of cooked chicken and considered the discussion closed.

Which, then begged the question, how to go about confessing. All the guides on the internet were geared towards high school girls, with ideas like letters in shoeboxes and homei choco, and other trite things that are fine for high schoolers but not grown men in their mid-twenties who had know each other for nearly a decade. For kicks, Shōta  tries searching that in google and ends up in a very odd place in the internet. Something about fursuits. He closes the browser quickly, then climbs into his sleeping bag to think. This has to be special.

It comes to him mid-nap interruption by Kurage trying to worm herself into the sleeping bag, when there’s a metallic clatter against his floor. He blindly reaches around Kurage - has he mentioned his cat is an asshole? - and getting a faceful of cat butt while he roots around for whatever fell. His hand lands on a small, thin rectangle, which his eyes tell him is Hizashi’s iPod. An idea comes to him, one that will need some practice to execute well, but … doable. He sets to, because he only has this weekend off.

By Monday, he has the perfect plan. He drops the iPod and a CD - thank God he knows that Hizashi has a CD player - clearly labeled with Hizashi’s name and with directions in Hizashi’s shoebox (somethings are a classic for a reason.) Then he goes about his day trying to teach first years. He’ll know when Hizashi has listened to it - he hopes. Then there’s a massive incident that All Might puts down quickly, but it’s all hands on deck to quell the populus and maintain order. Confessions, such as they are, get put to the wayside.

It’s only the Friday after, during Hizashi’s radio show that Shōta remembers that he gave Hizashi a CD. It’s during his talk segment that Hizashi talks about receiving a CD from his Number 1 Listener, and that he hadn’t listened to it yet. He invites all the listeners to listen with him, and queues up the only track on the CD. Shōta is glad that all the other teachers have left for the weekend, because he would be too mortified to survive otherwise.

Which is not to say he isn’t mortified, just less mortified than what he could be. Shōta decides it doesn’t matter and gives up on lesson plans to head home. That way he can skip most of the embarrassment.

It’s rush hour and it’s raining, so the trains are packed and it takes a while to get home. He greets his cat, and sets about preparing dinner, his phone clearly visible even though he knows Hizashi won’t call unless the show is over. He itches to turn on his radio, but refrains because Hizashi just played his confession on live radio. Shōta can imagine the fallout, and doesn’t wish to die of embarrassment. He settles for finishing the ingredients for katsu curry.

Shōta’s patience is rewarded when there’s a heavy pounding at his front door. The door flies open to a disheveled Hizashi, who is radiant and broken and panting and staring as if Shōta is a miracle Hizashi can’t yet believe in, and then he’s got an armful of wet leather and wet gloves against his face and a chaste wondrous supplication against his lips.

They break away to breathe, foreheads pressed against each other. He’s breathless and soaring and smiling just standing there in the genkan. And this is perfect, in it’s own way, no matter that Shōta’s sure that Kurage has probably eaten herself sick of the tonkatsu, no matter that Hizashi is dripping and probably going to catch cold, no matter that hundreds of thousands of people just heard Shōta confess on live radio. And then he’s laughing, and Hizashi is too and that’s fine, because he’s got Hizashi and the rest is just…. The rest.

Later that night, both of them full of curry and laughter and kisses, tangled up in bed, that Shōta sings for Hizashi, one more time, “Take my hand - Take my whole life too, But I can’t help falling in love with you.”

[siruannika]

Notes on American Gods S1E1 The Bone Orchard

(Notes on other episodes here)

This is a recap of sorts, and I intend to do one on every episode, where I basically discuss everything that strikes my fancy, with a heavy emphasis on book comparisons. The novel is among my handful of favorite books, and Hannibal is among my very favorite tv shows, so I’ve felt for a while that this could be pretty much tailor made for me, and I absolutely loved the first episode.

The approach I take here is not entirely spoiler free. I will avoid talking about any future plot threads, but I will probably point out things that are more significant later on, random remarks that carry more weight than seems or such. When it comes to characters and especially gods, I’ll discuss their identities regardless of whether they’ve been made explicitly clear in the show. For example, in this first episode they don’t come out and say who exactly Wednesday is, but if you know your mythology it’s very clear, and I’m not making a pretense of not knowing.

Finally, the book edition I use is the author’s preferred text, first published in 2004, which is according to the introduction about 12k longer than the original published version. Not sure if it’ll end up being significant here, but I thought I’d mention it.

Introductions out of the way, let’s dig in.

To start with, I really like the episode title, The Bone Orchard. It of course means cemetery, but if we look at the components, orchard is a place where things grow. And while death is often seen as an end, in American Gods it tends to lead to other things, it’s a gateway to becoming something else. It’s not an end but a change, or used as means to an end.

When one thinks of gods and death, it’s hard to not think of sacrifice, which again, is using death as a means to an end, turning life into something else. This happens in the very first scene of the show, in the first Coming to America section. In the book these are sprinkled among the main story, same as the Somewhere in America sections, one of which we get later too, and this is the first one of them, set between chapters three and four. These sections are depicted as being written down by Mr Ibis, who is a manifestation of the Egyptian god Thoth. He’ll appear later in the main story, I’ll talk about him more then.

In American Gods one of the core concepts is that the gods (and other mythological creatures that aren’t necessarily considered gods as such but are still believed in) exist because of the belief, and they need it, need worship to thrive. And when people came to America, they brought their gods with them, it was only then that they existed on the continent.

In the first section we see how Odin arrived to America, brought by exploring vikings, who end up stranded on the shore, miserable and unable to leave due to the lack of wind. They evoke Odin by making sacrifice in exchange for a passage out. They first sacrifice their eyes, same as Odin himself did (according to the myth he gives an eye in exchange for wisdom), and when that doesn’t work, they sacrifice a man, and finally battle each other, spilling blood until the wind comes and they can leave. Odin now has a foothold on the continent, even after everyone who believed in him has left.

This scene is markedly different from the one in the book, where the gist is that they settle on the shore, and in time meet a native, who they invite in and offer a feast of food and alcohol, and then sacrifice him to Odin. As a result of this the native people kill all of them, but due to the sacrifice Odin has arrived.

Next we meet Shadow, our main character (Ricky Whittle does wonderful job portraying him). The bulk of the book follows him and is told from his perspective. This first episode covers the first two chapters of the book, in addition to the first America sections.

Shadow in the beginning of the story is in prison, only days away from being released, and the first thing we learn about him is about his life philosophy, and where he stands at. He reflects on incarceration, how it gives perspective because the bad thing already has happened, and the only way is up. So he keeps his head down, just gets through his days, and apparently he’s been a model inmate. Of course, even when he feels it’s as low as it gets, the reality that is shown to us is that it could be worse; there’s the threat of violence and death from the other inmates. 

He has a friend, who later in the story will turn out to be something other than just another inmate, and they talk of death penalty and specifically by hanging, which again ties to Odin, known as the Gallows God. I’ll get back to this later.

Shadow is also feeling uneasy, feeling an ax over his neck, sensing that the weather is odd, snow in the air. He talks about it with his wife Laura on the phone, who says everything is fine and makes a good point on how worrying about things causes just more trouble, possibly for nothing.

Of course, Shadow is right that bad things are on the way, as he finds out a couple of days later when he is told that Laura is dead, died in a car accident. He’s released two days early because of this, and there starts his not at all simple journey home. During it, Shadow is numb, just trying to make it through. The numbness is as described in the book, but I like the scene added where he stops at a park and just yells at the scenery, because he can’t take it anymore. Looking at the episode on the whole, it’s clear they’ve gone with a bit different characterization for Shadow. In the book he is very even, taciturn by nature, and there is a sense of that in the show, but it feels too that he has a hidden edge to him. He’s patient and all, but prod him for long enough and he will snap. That’s what happens on the way home, where it really hits him that Laura is gone and the life he’s been imagining for after prison doesn’t exist. And it’s just the start of it.

On the way back home he meets a man who introduces himself as Wednesday, Odin of course, even if Shadow doesn’t know it yet. Their first scene is more expanded than it is in the book, Wednesday talks a lot more, and I like it, it gives us a sense of his conman nature. On their first meeting on the plane Wednesday offers Shadow a job, which Shadow isn’t keen on taking, saying he has a job already. Wednesday tells him to not rush, even though he clearly treats it as a done deal.

Next comes the first of the Somewhere in America sections, which depict the life of the gods in modern America. This is comparable to the first one of these in the book, where we meet Bilquis for the first time, albeit this too bears significant changes to the original text.

Bilquis is a manifestation of the Queen of Sheba, who in the myths is half-human, half-jinn, and she gets her life force from absorbing humans during sex. In the book she is a sex-worker, but here she finds people through online dating. She is portrayed here meeting a middle aged man, kind of nondescript, probably portrayed as someone that’s not too lucky at it, and hence an easier mark. 

It is pretty pointed, by the way, how the man at first talks about his children and dating and such, but when he knows she’s a sure thing, his whole demeanor changes, he calls her “the prettiest thing he’s ever touched for free”. In general, if a man says stuff like that, one should just leave, but then Bilquis is a goddess who plans on absorbing him, so she’s using it to her advantage. He thinks he’s in control, but he isn’t at all. In the scene, same as in the book, the man agrees to worship her, and he gets sucked into the ritual, and in the end what he says doesn’t come from him, it is the pattern, and she gains from it what she needs.

Back with Shadow, he meets Wednesday for the second time at a bar on the way, and finds out he doesn’t in fact have a job, because his best friend Robbie, who was to provide him with one, is also dead, in the same accident as Laura. The bad news keep piling. In the end, Shadow ends up agreeing to work for Wednesday, even if it is kind of against his will. He agrees to drive, do the odd jobs, kick asses when needed, but specifies only if they’re about to hurt Wednesday, and to hold his vigil if he dies.

Shadow again on the show is a lot more visibly on the edge than in the book, lot more visibly emotional, and it is a very conscious choice. One of the things I know people tend to have a hard time with this book is the even nature of Shadow, which is deliberate, but understandably doesn’t work for everyone even on the page where we get to see inside his head. On screen it wouldn’t work at all, he’d come off as a blank slate. So they’ve shifted him a bit, but he still feels like Shadow, not someone completely different, and I think it’s very successfully done.

At the bar Shadow also meets Mad Sweeney, a decidedly not stereotypical leprechaun. Their exchange is one of the funnier bits of the episode, they talk about him being leprechaun and Shadow not questioning it at all, as it’s absurd enough to not even deserve doubt, even after the ridiculous coin tricks. And of course, every word Sweeney says is completely true. Shadow probably thinks Sweeney is, as his name suggests, somewhat unhinged. Which he kind of is, lets be real. They end up fighting, because that’s what Sweeney likes to do, although it takes some goading to get Shadow into it, the offered gold coin or telling how the trick is done isn’t enough. The mention of Laura is, and again we see Shadow’s emotions snapping to the surface the way we don’t in the book.

Shadow ends up getting the gold coin, and getting driven toward home by Wednesday while he’s sleeping it off.

Bad things come in threes, and so they do for Shadow as well. He goes to the funeral and finds out not only are his wife and best friend dead, they were sleeping with each other.

The scenes with Audrey, Robbie’s wife and Laura’s best friend are expanded a lot, and I really liked what they’d done in the show, the complicated feelings of betrayal and sorrow and hurting, trying to deal with it not at all constructively. In the book she is entirely horrible person, and even in the show she’s still pretty terrible, but there’s sympathy toward her as well. They’re a lot more in the same place with Shadow, rather than her being bitter and him tolerating. Betty Gilpin is great in the scenes.

Shadow is also a lot more talkative at Laura’s grave than in the book, where he is rather infuriatingly taciturn, just dropping the coin. In the show his hurt and confusion is allowed to come to surface, and I especially like the thing about him reading books in prison, wanting to be better for when he gets back to his life with her. Only that life isn’t there anymore. 

In the last scene we meet Technical Boy, who is aesthetically very different from what he is in the book, obviously due to the fact that technical edge is at a different place now, and what was cool when the book was released is just old now. He is of course, the epitome of the entitled white boy type who thinks he’s cool, a supreme douchenozzle. Meaning a pretty great character, because I definitely wanted to punch him.

In the book this scene has him only deliver a warning to Shadow and through him to Wednesday, but in the show he very nearly kills Shadow, through his faceless henchmen attempting to hang him. They don’t succeed because they’re killed and Shadow saved by something we don’t see.

The hanging scene is the one that I felt a bit iffy about, since it very much evokes the idea of lynching. It bookends the episode with Shadow musing in the beginning how in prison there’s no need to worry about worse things, and at the end of the episode the threatened worse thing happens. Of course, hanging is a parallel with Odin, but one has to consider if it there’s a deeper reason for using the parallel, if it’s just flair it might not be worth it bringing up imagery that is potentially traumatic to part of viewers, but I’m not exactly the right person to decide that.

These days the discussion about race in America is a lot more visible to the general public than it was during the writing of the book, and we’ll have to see whether it’ll be more pronounced in the show than it is in the text. I suspect it is a deliberate choice to have the Technical Boy’s henchmen dressed in what looked vaguely like police uniforms to recall police brutality. Well have to see where they go with it.

Still, as I said in the beginning, I really liked it. The imagery of being in the middle of America, the subtly enhanced skies and the just enough trippy sequences were what I hoped for. Also the fairly black humor hits me just right. I’ll be back with the second episode notes.

(S1E2 here)

[topicprinter]

Hi everyone! We have just published an article on Failory written by Amir Rajan, in which he tells the story behind his mobile game, called “A Dark Room”, which hit #1 on the App Store and grossed over $800,000. Sit down and read his success story. I hope you enjoy it and if you have any questions, I will happily answer them below. Sit back. This is gonna be a long one. TL;DR:Did the whole "get a degree, get a job" thing. Ended up being incredibly well paid, but horribly empty because of corporate America. Decided to rage quit, downsize (sell pretty much everything I own), and take a sabbatical. After binge coding on random crap, I partnered with a guy in Canada and ported a web based, incremental, text based game to iOS (A Dark Room iOS). Welp. It went viral and hit the #1 spot. That let me extend my sabbatical for another three years. I built four more games, none of which succeeded. Now I'm back in Corporate America (luckily only part time now... I make enough off my games and other assets to not have to work all year). The Long Version: Frustration:There is such a heavy dose of luck in success. There are those that will give one thousand percent, and because the roll of the dice wasn't perfect, nothing materializes. They have as much love for the game development as I have... they've worked as hard as I have... but just didn't get a kiss from Lady Luck. And it sucks. It just isn't fair that they want to create more than their next breathe, but can't catch a good break to devote time to it. They have to look over at those that have the privaledge to take multiple rolls of the dice, eat their cake and have it too, and if everything still fails, they get bailed out by mommy and daddy.I was one of the lucky ones. I saved up for ten years, and was able to role once. I hit lucky number eleven. And even then, I still find myself having to grind in a 9 to 5 yet again. Sometimes it's fine. Other times I feel like I should have never taken that sabbatical and remained ignorant of the pure joy that comes from putting yourself in a creation. Before Sabbatical:I did what you were supposed to do. Did well (really well) in school. Went to college. Got a degree in Software Engineering and Computer Science. Did internships and landed a job as a developer for an insurance company right out of college. I did that for three years (two years of internships, one year as a full time employee). I then went to work for a company that build veterinary software. Did that for a couple of years. I really really loved coding. Lived and breathed it. I interviewed at a prestigious consulting company and got in on the ground floor. Spent three years there only to be scooped up by another consulting powerhouse. So here I am with a disgusting $140,000 in total compensation. A sea of cubicals, souless sheep that want nothing more than to do their time and go home. I didn't belong cause I actually cared about my craft. I tried to compensate for my unfulfilling corporate work with open source development after hours. This put a toll on my familial relationships (spending 45 hours a week working, then trying to get another 30 hours on nights and weekends, doesn't leave much time for anything else). I was at the brink of collapse. Lose my sanity, my wife, or my job. I decided to get rid of the job. I liquidated my 401k savings (took all the tax penalties up front), and said "alright, gonna live off of this for as long as I can until I figure something out". During Sabbatical:It was great to breathe. I was 178 pounds at 5'8 (a little portly). That changed during the sabbatical. It took me three months just to figure out what my routine looked like. I'd code on whatever my heart desired. It was wonderful. I didn't even know what day it was. I didn't miss my stuff. I didn't miss the anxiety attacks I got Sunday nights before having to go to work. All of that gone. By month four I came across the web based version of A Dark Room. I immediately connected with its sparse presentation. I reached out the Michael and asked his permission to port it to mobile. That night I lost track of time. I blinked and it was 3am. I had never felt that kind of loss of time before. Nothing around me existed, it was just me and my creation. After another four months, A Dark Room was done and released to the App Store. It got a whopping thirty downloads the first day. I didn't care. Cause it was my creation and it was awesome. I redesigned so much of the original game. So much of me went into it. Oh and I dropped 30 pounds too. Best shape of my life.I still remember one of my happiest days. It was early January. I was working on a stupid little multiplayer fighting game written in JavaScript and Pixi.js. I didn't care that ADR was barely getting 10 downloads a day, I didn't care that my savings was dwindling away. I found what I was supposed to do (build digital, evocative experiences). Savings Dwindling:The party was over at this point. My savings was dwindling down. A Dark Room was making its meager two thousand downloads a month (after Apple's cut, taxes, and splits, that's not a lot of take home). I started interviewing again for a job. I was better mentally, physically. And I never want my wife's quality of live to suffer (she was still in college at the time). Being the main bread winner of the home, I knew I had to suck it up and go back to work. I wasn't okay with it, but I knew it was my responsibility. I was interviewing again for those big salaries. I would save as much as possible given my now humble lifestyle. After I had enough cash tucked away, I'd quit and try again. Then. A Dark Room went viral. Out of nowhere it made $800 in one day. Then it made $1,200 in one day. Then it made $5,000. Then it made $8,000. Then it hit the #1 spot and I woke up to a $20,000 sales report. A Dark Room at #1:A Dark Room stayed at the number one spot. I was elated the first day. I was on cloud nine the second day. Then reality reared its ugly face with a sobering message: "this will come to an end."So I waited for it to come to an end. I didn't sleep for 18 days. My life: was hitting the refresh button on the App Store, seeing if I had fallen. I'd do it every 3 hours on the hour, day or night. I did it for eighteen days. I read every review that came through. I'd refresh the page again and see if I had dropped. This was my life. I was waiting for all this success to end. 250,000 downloads later, A Dark Room finally fell from the #1 spot. It was over. From there sales dwindled. After another four months, I was down to 100 downloads a day. I had recouped what I had "spent" taking the sabbatical (and then some). My wife was tired of living in a cramped one bedroom apartment. So, we put a huge down payment on a house. After A Dark Room Fell:I built a prequel to A Dark Room called The Ensign. It did okay (nowhere near as successful.. but not bad... this was around the time I did my interview with Indie Hackers). I wrote a book about Surviving the App Store too. I put my heart and soul into a game inspired by Edwin Abbot's "Flatland: Romance of Many Dimensions" called A Noble Circle. I created a digital Go board after binge watching Hikaru no Go. I built a touched based mobile RTS called Mildly Interesting RTS (MIRTS for short). Every game had "me" in it. I didn't do ads, I didn't do micro-transactions, scummy energy bars, and all those other bullshit monetization tactics. I ported A Dark Room to Android (which was almost not worth it). I did everything to keep building games. I wrote about all of my journey, presented, did podcasts, hoping to inspire others. And yet revenue kept dwindling. The writing was on the wall. Everything I did after ADR wasn't enough. And I got a job. Now:So here I am. Updating all my games to work well on iPhone X. Because I love them. I try to build what I can in my free time. But I'm back in Corporate America (it's been ten months so far). Two months in, everything became too real. My journey as a game dev was really over. I got so frustrated. I purged everything online. Took the book down, deleted all of my Reddit entries, my developer logs, my open source games. I removed all of it. All the content I created felt like a lie. Cause even with all this "success", I couldn't keep my dream going. I felt so much worse off because I got a taste of a fulfilling life that I wish I had been ignorant to. It has been eight months since "The Purge". I'm much better now. Mostly invisible outside of already established relationships. I stream occasionally on Twitch, keep my games maintained, and work on new ones as time allows.I no longer deal with anxiety attacks Sunday nights at the thought of "clocking in" Monday morning. I'm at peace with it. The people I once called sheep, aren't that. They just didn't have the means to roll the dice. All code I see is beautiful in its own way. It tells a story of the resonable programmers put in unresonable situations. Again, I'm one of the lucky ones. Because maybe in another year, I'll have enough play money saved up to role the dice again. ‍Silver Lining:My games provide a stable passive income (and I have a decade worth of an emergency funds in the bank). A Dark Room recently hit the #2 spot overall on Google Play (pro tip: stick to iOS, the revenue is almost an order of magnitude better). More importantly, I've very recently acquired the platform that helped me create my labors of love: RubyMotion. So between my games, subscription revenue, and my well paying contract gigs, I do alright for myself. Thank you Lady Luck. And my sincerest, deepest apologies for the 99.9999% that will never see the "failure" I've seen. I really do empathize with you. And I wish I had a better story. ‍Numbers?I'm sure some of you are asking about numbers. Do you remember the title of this post? Do you remember what I said about the 99.9999% failure rate? Do your remember what I said about privaledge, and eating your cake and having it too? What's the point of talking about the numbers I'm making now? So you can dream about one day making these numbers too? You wont. Start with that and work from there.But if you really want numbers, here are some of the numeric sacrifices I made to role the dice once:Have a 4.0 GPA through High School.Graduate #36 out of a class of 800+.Go to a community college cause it's cheap.Work two jobs in the summer to pay for college and save up.Go to university in 2001 when it was still possible to pay out of pocket and graduate without crippling debt.Get a degree in something that is valued. Even better if you actually like what you got a degree in.Land a job right out of school that makes you $55k a year.Live off of $15k a year. Don't buy a house. Don't buy a fancy car. Just save.Do this for a year.Land a job that makes you $100k a year. Save the rest. Max out your 401k contribution.Celebrate by living off of $30k a year.Do this for three years.Land a job that makes you $140k a year. Save the rest. Max out your 401k contribution. Get a Roth, put $5k a year into that.Celebrate by living off of $60k a year.Do this for three years.Don't have kids. Don't get sick. Don't have any catastrophic events that leave you bankrupt. Probably best to just not leave the house.Quit your job. Sell everything. Liquidate your 401k. Pay all the tax penaties.Live without insurance cause COBRA costs $2000 a month. Still Don't have kids. Don't get sick. Don't have any catastrophic events that leave you bankrupt.Now you can take a year and a half off and roll the dice once. Now you can read all the success stories online and dream that you'll get that too.But you probably wont. And that's okay. ‍Original article posted at https://failory.com/battle-scars

[brokencompass-kseay]

It’s difficult to put into words what it is about Scotland that calls me back again and again. I imagine a tether, a rather long one attached to me and the continent of Briton, specifically Scotland. Every couple of years I feel a tug on that tether beckoning me to come back. It’s strange and wonderful to miss a place not home. When I take account of the challenges Scotland offers I see: the rather small goat trails they call roads, the odd placement of the driver on the passenger side of the car, traffic cameras ( the points’ system for penalties gets passed on to you), the challenge of roundabouts ( when you live in a world of major roads roundabouts add significant confusion) and road directions and the unwritten driving protocol ( I still haven’t figured this one out). You can find out more about driving in the UK here : https://www.visitbritainshop.com/world/articles/guide-to-driving-in-the-uk/ or here :http://www.scotlandinfo.eu/driving-single-track-roads-in-scotland/. Taking all that into account I love Scotland. Her unique history, the cities seemingly frozen in time, her wild turbulent landscapes, and her people.

My first adventure leading others through a foreign country happened in 2013. My cousin, a popular renaissance musician asked me to plan and execute a trip to the Highlands of Scotland. The deal was travel expenses, room and board covered plus some pay. I had about 3 months to get the plan together. This involved research for accommodations, site seeing locals, transportation and local food shops. I hit the ground and ran the gauntlet. I found accommodations for 15 people in two locations. I secured two vehicles to take around Scotland. In the UK you cannot travel with more than 10 people in a vehicle without a commercial license. I have included a link to the government website with details about this here: https://www.gov.uk/drivers-hours/passenger-carrying-vehicles. Interesting to know and helpful if you travel with groups be sure to read up on the traffic laws in the country you visit. You can Google for just about anything you need to know about driving in the UK and elsewhere in Europe or I may have included it in this article.

The plans were finalized and I began my travel two days ahead of the others so that I could spend some time in Edinburgh and North Berwick on the coast. After 2 stops and 11 agonizing hours in a plane we arrived in Edinburgh early in the morning. I did gather my things and grab a cup of coffee before I headed out to catch a bus to my hotel North of the city in South Queensferry.  As it happened, I checked messages and one of the travelers was coming in early. As it happened he was staying at the same hotel I booked so I grabbed a cup of coffee and waited for Kevin to arrive. We stayed at the Innkeepers Lodge in South Queensferry, almost directly under the Forth Bridge.  It wasn’t a noise issue I can assure you. I slept well at the Innkeepers Lodge and would stay again. Lest I forget, the hospitality and food was excellent as well.

Why did I pick this location? The Forth Bridge was considered the eighth wonder of the world when it was first constructed and is every bit as awe inspiring as the Eiffel Tower in Paris. The Forth Bridge was opened by the Prince Of Wales in 1890. The bridge was constructed as three separate double cantilevers. Each cantilever was constructed and were linked together by 350ft long girders spans joined to the main portion of the bridge with massive pins. The entire bridge is counterbalanced by 1000 ton counter weights on the outside of the outer cantilevers. This impressive bridge is truly engineering  wonder and worth a visit. You can read more about the construction of this marvel of modern invention here: http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1485

Kevin and I arrived, checked and set about trying desperately to stave off jet lag. I have found even if you are dog tired you should take a walk, it helps with sleeping in a new place and the over tired hyper that can happen to some travelers ( me). We walked around the village pictured in this post. Apparently South Queensferry is one of the few terraced villages left. Imagine my luck to discover through no intentional planning that I ended up in a place worth exploring. It is why I call my blog the broken compass. I can plan, plan, but it is the happy accidents that give me the biggest thrill. We wandered, found a pub, had a drink and talked to some locals. We then walked back to the hotel and decided it was time for bed. The next day we were headed to North Berwick to see the gannets.

North Berwick is a sleepy fishing village just a 30 minute train ride from Edinburgh. It is approximately 25 miles north/ northeast of Edinburgh in east lothian. It is home to the largest population of northern gannets at Bass Rock, Tantallon Castle to the east and Dirleton Castle to the west. They have a world class birding center, amazing gardens, shops, and cafes. For you golfers, this is a picturesque place to shoot 18 holes at North Berwick Glen or the nearby Muirfield. Be sure you wear good walking shoes you will need them! More information and details here: https://www.visitscotland.com/info/towns-villages/north-berwick-p240511. After a long day of walking my legs off, we headed to Edinburgh to do the things I have on my list for every visit. What are those you say? My list includes the following:

  Stop at The worlds End pub and have a pint http://www.worldsend-edinburgh.co.uk/

Sainsbury market for tea and biscuits https://stores.sainsburys.co.uk/

Cadenhead’s Whisky Shop, if you are a Scotch drinker-GO Here! 172 Cannongate, just off the Royal Mile.https://www.google.com/search?safe=active&biw=1408&bih=670&tbm=lcl&q=cadenheads+edinburgh&oq=Cadenheads&gs_l=psy-ab.1.0.0i67k1j0i10k1l3.4822.8286.0.10894.12.12.0.0.0.0.757.2131.0j9j6-1.10.0….0…1.1.64.psy-ab..2.10.2127.0..0j0i131k1.sBbZKdTOZqM#rlfi=hd:;si:13993170634694364678;mv:!1m3!1d199.97448952253703!2d-3.1803584!3d55.9511587!2m3!1f0!2f0!3f0!3m2!1i988!2i550!4f13.1

A tearoom..seriously find one that speaks to you and go there. The Elephant House is famous after J.K. Rowling did much of her writing here, but the tea is good too.

Harris Tweed Shop- no visit is complete without a visit to Harris Tweed. I own too many tweed hats, but that is another blog entirely. Highland House-Harris Tweed 493-495 The Royal Mile, Edinburgh EH1, UK ( sorry the web page was an ebay site)

The White Horse Close- At the end of Cannongate,  and  was restored in 1961. It is mostly a Hollywood version of 1700’s Scotland, but worth it for the nostalgia.

Photo © C L T Smith (cc-by-sa/2.0)

We completed our errands in Edinburgh we caught the train back to South Queensferry to get some rest. Tomorrow we connected with the rest of the group and headed north.

It was bright morning in June, the abundant wildflowers were in bloom, their perfume heavy in the air, the birds were singing and life was captured in a moment. The north was calling and we were about to head into the heart of Scotland, the Highlands. It is these moments when the world stops turning that I truly live! I live at the moment and when these moments happen they make life worth living. They are everything fine on this earth. I am believer in messengers and receive many when I travel here. More on that later. Kevin and I loaded up in Taxi to meet the group at Edinburgh Airport. Once we all had arrived, we walked out to were our cars were waiting and piled in. I drove a KIA SUV and my cousin drove the 9 person van. This was about to my first experience driving. Kevin navigated for me, what a sweetheart. I was a bit nervous at first and hit a few curbs, but after a while I got used to the odd placement of controls and settled in. It helped that we had a three hour drive to the house we rented in Aviemore.  We drove for a bit and stopped as we just made it of the bridge onto the mainland. The small cafe was delightful and I was allowed to flex  my knowledge of local references. What do I mean by that? On the menu the proprietor list ‘Gammon’ as an item available. The question came up and I said, “I believe Ham” is what this is. The best part is the lady that owned the place gave me a friendly nod of appreciation for at least knowing what they call things. It felt good and I felt a twinge of kindred spirit settle on me that stayed with me the remainder of the trip. We ate talked about the road  ahead and possible road stops.  We pushed on to Aviemore and we found some rain ( imagine that? ).

  The main roads are fairly well maintained in Scotland. If you drive try to pick the major thorough fares especially if you are new to driving on the other side of the road. It is hard enough to get your brain to reprogram without the added challenge of learning to drive.  The minor roads, you will recognize them as there are more of them and they are narrow. I mean NARROW. Once you have a couple of days of driving under your belt the minor roads should not be as difficult to navigate and concur. As it happened, the next day, the guys wanted to go and tour the distillers. In Aviemore you are 20-30 minutes from the whisky trail that will lead you straight to many of the amazing tastings available. Macallan and Aberlour both have excellent tours that are worth the money and time. Macallan just rebuilt their facility last year. I believe it opened in June of 2017. Hands down one of the nicest facilities I have ever been to. There is something exciting and dangerous about tasting whisky. You are either going to love it or hate it, but there is something about Scotland that makes it taste better. I think it is the air in the Highlands, it enhances the flavor.  And so it went the guys went to the distillers and the rest of us went to Cawdor Castle. Cawdor Castle if the castle Shakepseare wrote about in Macbeth. It is a current residence and all the historical information is provided by the Laird. Be warned the sense of humor is, well you will see won’t you? Cawdor Castle itself is a fairly standard lair residence. What I found interesting is the 5+ miles of surrounding wild garden and the manicured walled gardens. The walled gardens are works of art, the Brits and the Scots love their gardens and so do I. we could have easily spent a week at this location exploring the village. Go and see this place, it has tourists but like you have at other castles and the pace is not as hurried. Like most castles in Scotland and Britain, there is a cafe. I don’t know what it is about the cafes, but I get the best soups and tea at these places.

Unfortunately,  we had to leave to meet the rest of the group and head to Inverness. We had time for a couple of stops along the way.  Our next stop would be Elgin Cathedral in Elgin, Scotland. This Cathedral, like many religious sites is believed to have once been a Celtic religious site prior to secular religion coming to Scotland. The Cathedral burned three times post completion in 1270 and was expanded many times through the 1600’s. Once the lead roof was removed the mid 1500’s the Cathedral fell into a state disrepair and eventually fell into ruin. The site we visited was incredible for a ruin. I can only imagine what a beautiful structure this once was. A truly incredible and massive space. We walked where ever they would allow us to go and took many photos. You can find out more about Elgin Cathedral here: http://www.welcometoscotland.com/articles/abbeys-churches-and-catherdrals-.

Our next stop was lunch with the rest of the group in Nairn. What can I tell you about Nairn? Beware of the seagulls, they are the size of dogs and they will take food right out of your hands. Our group was lunching in front of the Church Of Scotland in Nairn when a cheeky seagull decided to try and take food from of the the group. Cliff was watching the gull prior to the attack an proceeded the flat palm the bird away from his intended prize, Cliff’s sandwich. I must have been the only person to witness it and that is a shame. That bird was stunned when he was deterred from robbing his victim and I was laughing so hard I could barely keep my feet. I am talking the good full belly laughs that make you cry.  I have never forgotten that day because of a seagull. The picture below is post rebuff. I don’t know I think he looks a little bitter?

We composed ourselves, left the cars parked and walked down to the beach at the end of the road. The group decided to take their shoes off and we walked into the North Sea to play in the surf. The water is the most beautiful blue color and the smell is fresh, clear and bright. We recharged ourselves in the surf and decided to head to Inverness for a walk about and some birthday dinner. Inverness is always worth a visit if you have the time. The live music is not to be missed and views will not disappoint you. If it is your birthday, well that creates an atmosphere of celebration. It was special celebrating my birthday in the Highlands and I had congenial company, mostly strangers, but good company no less.  For the rest of this story, stayed tuned as it is forth coming. As you can see someone caught my candid response to the surprise dessert.That sparkler thing looks like a road flare!

Scottish Highlands & other tales from the Roadside. It's difficult to put into words what it is about Scotland that calls me back again and again.