#whom is the faker i wonder

[kaleidoru]

FAKER!

[zappedbyzabka]

Ftm/transmasc Johnny thoughts...

(tw for everything on that topic)

His white-knuckled grasp on masculinity and the way he thinks he should perform it—all these arbitrary things he and others have applied manliness to, like how much meat is in his food, sucking up his feelings, and how attractive women find him: It all just feels like a person who thinks that if they don’t keep up a strict image of masculinity then everyone will take away that ‘Man’ title.

Just like any boy worries—especially trans boys.

Johnny wants to be perceived as and live as who he is. It’s hard when if you’re a nonconforming guy, you’ll be seen as just a girly boy, but when you’re someone who has to take more steps than that, who has to put in way more effort to even receive that “boy” title, anything could end up with you thrown back in the box of “girl”.

He had the privilege of having a rich stepdaddy who just wanted him to be quiet and behave however he could get that to happen—which happened to be testosterone, cutting his hair even shorter than it was, and being called “He”

Plus, a white lie that he was just an effeminate little kid who grew out of it to anyone who was confused as to where Laura’s pretty daughter went. He just had to avoid anyone who really knew him before.

Because people accept that more than the truth, which is that he was a girl who was always a boy.

Kreese was the only man besides Sid whom he had as a male role model—and of course, Kreese was the only one he loved. The one he thought he should be like—and we all know what a wonderful impact Kreese has.

He wasn’t allowed to care like his mother. He wasn’t allowed to cry. He wasn’t allowed to be a pussy. He wasn’t allowed to be anything but what he saw in front of him, what he saw in movies—stereotypical and obvious.

If he said he enjoyed the dresses his mother used to buy him, he's a faker.

If he mentions that he always loved little soldier toys and monster truck jammies, then he’s not faking. When he’s in the locker room talking about girls and football, isn’t faking. If his towel slips, he’s faking.

That’s how it is. It doesn’t matter who he is inside if people can’t see it.

It’s tiring. He didn’t really enjoy playing a whole new act.

But he clung to every shred of “proof” he had, even when he started to pass. Even when all the “Mis—I mean, Sir”s stopped, even when there was no trace of Joanie.

When she was dead to him and everyone that knew her.

Bobby was there the whole time, he watched Johnny’s progression, was the first to call him Johnny, and was the first Johnny felt comfortable changing in front of. Bobby had some difficulty with his parents over it, and it made Johnny feel terrible. It felt like he was a burden, and his freakiness would always get in the way. That’s why he took so long to be open with any of the the other Cobras about it, besides the fear of getting thrown in a lake for what he is.

Just his existence caused ripples.

He could always tell when his mother missed her daughter—some days he felt like a murderer.

He didn’t like the pressure he felt with the girls he pursued to be this overly masculine meathead. Ali never pushed him into anything—she actually seemed to hate his macho act—but there are rules to being a boyfriend, like there are rules to being a girlfriend, right? You gotta be dominating and tough, and you can’t let her touch your ass even if you want her to, and you can’t talk about other boys you find cute because only girls can like boys, and he’s not a girl just like he’s not a fag. That’s what it is to be the man of a woman.

He didn’t want to be questioned. He didn’t want to see doubt in anyone’s face.

Maybe it was one reason he was so fucking angry about Daniel, who didn’t have to do any of that being born male, yet it all came so easy to him anyway. Didn’t have to worry even if he didn’t do as expected.

It felt like Ali went off to find herself a real boy. One who couldn’t fight, had no muscles, and probably didn’t even know who Rocky was- did none of the things Johnny had to do.

Don’t you have to be taller than your girlfriend? But then he thinks, when Johnny was a girlfriend the height never was an issue.

Daniel just got to…relax into the role of being male.

But maybe it was his view of women that he learned from Kreese that drove her away. Maybe it’s how he forced himself to act. Maybe it’s because his strive had him stepping on women by accident.

Johnny found himself wanting to be more like Daniel. Unquestioned in his shortcomings. Effortlessly masculine. He could do things like...keep his own hair silky without feeling like a gender traitor.

It was infuriating. It was unfair. It was embarrassing. It made him wonder if he slipped up with Ali and she lost attraction to him. He wondered If he wasn’t enough.

Kreese “had no issue with such a strong appreciation for the male lifestyle.” Saw that unique pain in Johnny as another way to mold him. Told Johnny that if his parents failed him, he’d be there to provide his hormones. You really can’t fuck up with a kid that desperate to be accepted, can you? Desperate, glowing potential Kreese needed to keep hidden under his wing. Doesn’t matter what he calls himself, as long as he does what Kreese tells him to.

He could drip alcohol into the cut when Johnny misbehaved with a simple pronoun slip up.

When Johnny got choked by Kreese and completely lost a pillar in his life, he fell completely into his persona, even when he was with the Cobras who always had a way of making him forget he wasn’t born like them.

Beer and chicks and cars and meat—hell yeah, right? Yeah. Yeah. Those are his favorite things. That’s all he wants. Men are supposed to want to fuck things and they’re supposed to look at porn, so he tries to want that. He’s a man’s man, and he never wants to do any of the feminine shit he used to.

He was near-frantic when he kept having rough patches and couldn’t afford his hormones without Sid’s allowance. His life was in that old man’s hands, and when Daniel raised the rent, he felt sickeningly afraid that he’d have to choose between giving up his dojo or giving up the shots that made him feel just okay enough to keep going.

It feels like the comfort of being the man came with a whole new torture caused by the weight of what it really means to be that man—The feeling or the performance? Is he still man enough if he misses a shot?

He never had any surgery. He honestly never really thought about it–he was the only trans person he knew growing up, and he didn’t really…want it? Whenever he told people his condition, that was always the question. “So...did you get surgery yet?”

Yet.

Like he had to do it. As if it were required of him, like all the countless other things, if he wanted to be who he was on the inside.

His chest was the same size as a man with pecs on the plumper side, so who cares? He liked the way he looked there. No one ever commented on his chest, because it’d be rude to say anything about that that to a man.

He didn’t want doctors touching him, or observing him. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it.

He still wears binders like he used to and stuffs his pants every now and then—on hard days when he’s worried someone will look into his eyes and just...know.

I imagine Daniel having zero idea until he happened to find Johnny with his binder halfway on. Ending up ruddy and panicked and slamming the door closed to give Johnny privacy.

And Daniel’s old and not all that well-versed in such things, but he tries to be gentle with delicate topics and delicate people.

The talk he and Johnny would have would be awkward. Snappy and defensive on Johnny’s end.

He would somehow be more knowledgeable on the topic than Johnny and it wouldn’t go to far the first time, but slowly and surely Johnny would open up for him. Tell him more and more. Reveal what the big driver for his anger with him was.

There’s something sweetly validating about the man you considered an enemy for so long accepting you as you are and validating you—even with all the details.

Maybe Johnny starts to cry again. starts grooming himself again. Gaining his “I don’t care what you think because I could kick your ass” attitude.

Maybe all the joy of having people that care about him in his life—reconciling with his kid perhaps—has him relaxing his shoulders for once.

Maybe he lets himself try a queer bar. Lets his eyes wander over to other men, easy and guiltless unlike the other times, because truly what’s manlier than liking other men? Maybe he lets himself go home with one, lets himself ask for what he wants because the guy seemed to already understand everything, like he’d been with people like Johnny before. He had no expectations.

(There’s also a world where Sam confides in him about her feeling like she has to be hyper-feminine and palatable to be liked when maybe she wants to shave her head and still wear skirts—)

[dilirebas]

My review of The Blood of Youth / 少年歌行

So um... here's a review I wrote months ago and forgot about in my drafts haha 😅

The Blood of Youth is a wuxia story which follows a group of young fighters who are thrown together under unexpected circumstances. While they make their names in the martial arts world, there are also old scores to settle in the political world of the imperial court.

I honestly wasn't sure about this drama at first but it really grew on me. It's very much in the spirit of wuxia, and while it's not a perfect drama, there's so much to love!

A quick gloss of some of the main characters: Xiao Se is an innkeeper with a quick mind, a sharp tongue, and a mysterious past. Lei Wujie is an optimistic pugilist who has left home for the first time in search of a challenge. Wu Xin is a prodigy whom the whole martial arts world seems to be hunting for. Tang Lian, brooding and internally conflicted, is the eldest disciple of the legendary martial arts city of Xueyue City. Sikong Qianluo is the fearless and energetic daughter of Xueyue City's third master. Ye Ruoyi is the perceptive and clever daughter of an imperial general.

Okay so I totally shipped Xiao Se with Ye Ruoyi even though it was obvious from the beginning that they wouldn't end up together, but I couldn't help it and I have no regrets!!!

But honestly I feel like this is a drama where you can ship everyone with everyone. There's such a wonderful friendship between the main characters and I just loved seeing the core group together.

For me, the opening episodes of the drama were the weakest, and I'm so glad I kept watching. The story moves quite fast at first and you're introduced to a lot of characters in a short span of time. It almost felt a bit messy and random because I initially wasn't sure how important each character was and I hadn't developed any emotional attachments to anyone so early on. If you can't keep up with everyone, that's totally okay, and it definitely clears up.

I think the story really takes off once they reach Xueyue City, and it just gets better and better from there. Xueyue City puts into perspective how powerful each fighter is, which forces are aligned with which, and the significance of each character's past. This is also where imperial politics start to trickle in.

A lot of the recent wuxia dramas like to integrate imperial politics into wuxia stories but I feel like most of them end up becoming political stories where the characters can fight really well. That's fine and I like political dramas, but I often wish there were more wuxia dramas. But I think The Blood of Youth really gets it right. Even at points in the plot that focus on the political struggle, and even when they reach the capital, it very much feels like a wuxia story. Hidden martial experts lurk at every corner of the capital. The protagonists behave like wuxia heroes who hold onto their own values, dictated by xia and not realpolitik. If anything, the fight scenes get better as they enter the more political arcs.

So I have mixed feelings about the fight scenes. I feel like the choreography is quite strong but the CGI is a bit mid. And boy did they use a lot of CGI (since the drama takes a fantasy-like approach to martial arts). But I saw behind-the-scenes footage of the actors doing their stunts and I was impressed by how much of it they actually had to do themselves. I think the CGI made the stunts look faker than they actually were. I also got used to the fantasy-like fighting style and came to like it by the end.

This is primarily a fluffy and hopeful drama, although there's also a surprising amount of depth and angst. If wuxia is up your alley, I think you'll have fun watching this!

[despair-and-turmoil]

TW: Suicide mentions, lots of them.

So I've started contacting therapists again. I'm at the worst I've been for a number of years now. I haven't been thinking about killing myself for a while, and it's come back really strong in the last couple of days.

My anxiety has become a general existential dread, and i just feel like it would be easier if i didnt have to deal with it.

I broke down in front of my boyfriend because that was when i realised I wanted to off myself again, and I feel really bad because I didn't want to drag him into it (I did it with my ex, probably in a bit of a manipulative way which I now recognise was really not ok) but I don't think he quite got what I meant when I said "I'm anxious all the time and I don't think I can deal with it anymore and I just want it to stop" because I didn't want to say the words "I want to kill myself."

I was hanging out with friends, and I felt better for a while, but now I'm alone at home and I am no Bueno. I don't think I am a danger to myself though. Does that make me a faker? Am I feeling this way for attention?

Probably not. I don't think people wonder about killing themselves for attention (from whom? Yourself? You're already giving yourself attention bro.)

Anyway, I just needed to vent for a bit. I worry because my low mood is really impacting my work, and I feel really bad about it. I don't want to lose my job.

[casvist]

hello my lovely peaches , *puts my clown wig on bcs i’m shy* i’m back at it again, being a greedy bitch and bringing you my second  and super fake muse, yeva.  remember that part where the darkling’s fake ass pretended to be all nice and wholesome. well, yeva is faker than that. she probably has severe back pain from single handedly carrying all her lies on her back. anyway, i could slander her more but i will probably do that later. if you want to plot please LIKE this post or IM me/message me on discord and i’ll bring some clown shoes and ask for some plotting ( but in.... greedy )

PINTEREST  . PROFILE .    BIO (tba) .  VIKTORIYA.     discor*d     six of hoes🔪#7888

[ yeva zudina ], an [ twenty-eight ] year old grisha in the little palace. she is a [ tidemaker ] and are known in the little palace as the [ mountebank ]. they are known to be [ adaptable ] and [ devious ] and vaguely resemble [ davika hoorne ]. 

( okay my soc ass had to make her grow up in ketterdam i’m sorry )

- before yeva knew that she was a tidemaker, she was what one might call an “ordinary” girl in ketterdam. ( as far as anyone can be ordinary in ketterdam )

- as many people living there, she didn’t really have the best time of her life there. her father, well, he was just a name causing an uncomfortable silence whenever one would mutter it. her mother, she tried her best to survive in that hellhole. although, yeva knew how much her did for her, the only person she really could get close to was her step-sibling. ( a wc i’ll elaborate more on when i’m finally requesting that wc). though not bound by blood, they meant the world to yeva and little yeva felt as if she had to protect her from whatever was lurking in ketterdam’s (shady) alleyways.

- despite of her noble intentions, realistically she wasn’t strong. and how so? no one taught her how to protect herself and she was still a child. however, yeva didn’t want to wait around for nothing. instead, she decided to take matters into her own hands and looking back this idea was really stupid, but she wholeheartedly believed that messign with some other kids would be a brilliant way to improve her combat skills ( all my muses have to be stupid at some point i’m sorry, theyre all dumb)

- of course this plan failed terribly ( and instead she was the one getting her ass beaten  ).  luckily someone witnessed that (comedic) unfortunate scene and helped yeva out. and this somehow became the turning point of her life. yeva, completely awe-struck with the stranger, wanted to know more about him. truth to be told, he didn’t do much and his presence alone somehow scared the kids away ( poor kids almost got into a fight with a grown-ass man) but yeva didn’t really care. turned out he was a drüskelle (retired though (as much as one can), thus he didn’t really have to rely on any grisha “magic”, something yeva really admired.

- long story short, he not only became a mentor to yeva ( who successfully convinced him to show her some “cool” drüskelle tricks) but also a father-figure. yeva really trusted him and his beliefs also became hers. which we might say weren’t exactly grisha friendly. at first she didn’t get why he hated grisha so much, to her they didn’t seem too bad but as time passed his words left a mark.

- however, what actually made her end up despising grisha was a certain incident. as much as this day affected yeva, everything happened within a second. a short moment of exchanged laughter, cruelly disrupted by two grisha. tidemakers ( a cruel twist of irony ) . looking back at it now, yeva figured that these two grisha had a long and unresolved grudge against him ( which wasn’t too surprising with him being a drüskelle) and had their eye on him ever since. 

- to put it briefly, yeva was forced to witness the death of someone whom she considered a father to her. yet, fate couldn’t be more cruel on her and it was also the moment her abilities were triggered , and , of course, she turned out to be a grisha as well. make it worse. a tidemaker.

- skipping over all the formalities (bcs this is getting too long) and luck not really being on her side she was brought to the little palace. her mother wasn’t too surprised and knowing that yeva wouldn’t have a future here at ketterdam, she thought that ravka was far more appealing.

- yeva wasn’t happy of course. not only was she forced to be with the people who she despised she herself was one. at first, she refused to do anything at all, she didn’t mind if she were to be punished for her stuborness. no one knew why she was behaving this way, they just shrugged it off as her being a spoiled brat refusing to be useful. yeva, however, didn’t continue to be like this forever and what happened next surpirsed everyone. suddenly, she was eager to train and improved quickly. all they saw was a hardworking grisha but what they didn’t know was that yeva’s intentions weren’t noble. 

- instead of wasting her time at pitying and hating herself, she realized that she was at the perfect place to learn everything about her ‘enemies’. 

- basically, she has that grand plan of trying to destroy things from within, being the wolf in sheep’s clothing (cutting this short bcs this is getting long again). 

personality

- honestly, as i’ve mentioned before she’s fake. and not in that way where she’ll just pretend to smile and go on with her day, she really goes out her way in acting as if she was the sweetest and kindest girl out there. however, everthing she does serves some purpose. she helps you with some training ? she gives you some advice on a personal matter ? she compliments you on your smile ? lets say she doesn’t do it out of kindness. not when you’re a grisha. of course, she isn’t perfect at keeping this act up all the time.  and if one pays a little more attention to her actions, they can see her facade crumbling. still, where vika is all about being straight-forward and accidentally hurting one’s feeling without meaning it, yeva is all about sugar-coating when she needs to but also deliberately using one’s weakness against them.

traits ( adding some bcs i want to redeem her a little bit but i also don’t respect her so..) 

[+] adaptable, decisive, loyal , observant 

[-] ruthless, doesn’t think through consequences, blindly faithful, intrusive

headcanons

- tba ( but i just had to add that yeva prbly wouldn’t hesitate to push someone from the ship when they’d travel through the shadow fold.)

- every time she must do more than simply tolerating grisha, like saying that they’re great she probably loses one year of her life

- trying to keep her reputation yeva is known to give exceptionally good advice

- as much as she despises that “grisha magic” she believes in things like card reading, fortune telling and is quite faithful to the saints (regardless of being grisha or not)

connections

someone who sees through her (shit) facade and unlike everyone else who perceives yeva as that sweet angel, they find her suspicious and doesn’t trust her.

a grisha who is the complete opposite of what yeva think they are and might as well be someone yeva tolerates and might add that 0.1% of character development 

listen an unrequited love bcs i’m laughing at the idea that someone might fall for her super fake persona and the more time they spend with her they start to realize that it is just an act.

someone who turns for advice to yeva bcs of her reputation

*sneakily puts my step sibling connection here so if u r intreested hmu ;) but i’ll also request it later but rn i’m too lazy*

HONESTLY EVERYTHING i love angsty and dramatic shit, but i’m super open for other ideas bcs my two braincells need that wonderful input and inspo so gimme all the connections PLS !!! *types this in thirsty for all ur wonderful muses*

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.15

When You Come Back to Me

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)   x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?)    Word count: 3290

Summary: The reunion of soulmates. 

Do I need to say more?

Warnings: mentions of violence, guns and death, swearing, light angst and fluff

A/N: Let me voice what I assume are your thoughts (and mine too, tbh): Fucking finally!

Story masterlist

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

So… you might be panicking.

A little.

To be fair, all of your worries were justified, every single one of them, and that was why you voiced them.

“What if he’s gonna attack me? I mean, you thought I was a fake.”

“What if he passes out from the shock? I know no first aid! I barely know my own name!”

“What if he jumps out of the window? I mean, I might if thought I was seeing a ghost-“

Natasha Romanoff shot you an amused glance, continuing her stroll through the halls of Tower, and you had a hunch you weren’t the only one well-aware that the last question was simply you making excuses for not meeting your soulmate just yet.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. You did, so, so much, but at the same time…. yeah, you were definitely panicking.

“He’s not gonna jump out of a window. As for the other cases, which are about as likely, I’m gonna be there with you to make sure it doesn’t happen before you get to actually talk. Happy?”

Not really.

Your brain was still coming up with more ridiculous what ifs, that annoying little things, and now your frantic heart and the actual worries joined the party and you had a strong urge to spin on your heels and walk the fuck away.

“What if… what if he hates me?” you whispered, your chest tightening at the thought. That was the real concern, wasn’t it? “I mean, I’m alive and he was through hell, because he thought I wasn’t. What if he hates me, because I didn’t come sooner? I can’t even remember him – how messed up is that?”

It wasn’t until the redhead stopped in her tracks and turned to look at you that you realized you had in fact frozen on spot.

“He’s not gonna hate you, милашка,” she assured you with softness you didn’t expect her to be capable of, her features compassionate and kind. “None of that was your fault.”

You ignored whatever she had called you in favour on focusing on more important matters. “But neither it was his.”

A smile flirted on her lips, a simple tug of the corners of her mouth, brief – but you still saw it as she continued walking then, speaking up again.

“You tell him that.”

“Uh-huh…”

By the universal law of the Universe, the she only took few more steps before facing the captain’s door, apparently.

“Ready?”

“Not really,” you murmured honestly, earning an understanding nod.

“That’s fair. Jarvis? Is he decent?” the spy asked lowly as she gently pushed you in front of herself so you entered first.

Instead of an answer, the door slowly opened upon the AI’s command, effectively sending your heart to a gallop you weren’t sure it could handle. The door could creak for a dramatic effect and you wouldn’t be able to hear it over the whooshing noise in your ears.

Natasha Romanoff might have nudged you to come in. You weren’t sure; your legs carried you on their own without you remembering ordering them so.

The spacy bedroom slash private living room with a couch and coffee table was plain. Nothing special about it, huge slats covering a window replacing one of the walls only partly opened.

Sure, it was kinda impressive and it kinda wasn’t and it didn’t matter the moment you had laid your eyes to the second door of the room right opposite to the window.

A blond man stood still in the doorway to what you assumed was his bathroom, hand frozen in motion as it went through his damp hair.

You couldn’t help but stare at him for several reasons.

Firstly, he looked… familiar. There was an air around him, screaming sincerity and gentleness, kindness. Comfort. And sorrow.

You had seen the pictures of him, sure, the video even, but this was something quite different. Upon meeting him in flesh, you somehow knew… it wasn’t all a lie. You were meant to find him and your racing heart and mind were on board with that.

He was also incredibly handsome. You had met a real-life angel and you were confident he must have helped to sculpture this man’s face and body. He was wearing a white tank top, revealing his muscled arms, dark sweatpants hanging from his thin waist, seemingly even thinner with comparison to his broad shoulders.

His face had shock written all over it, but still held beauty no man should possess. Men were supposed to handsome, but seeing his eyes, you couldn’t help but think of the word beautiful. His lips were plump, no doubt prettier than yours, his cheekbones and strong jaw were a gift from God and… you had a hunch that when his hair wasn’t wet and was lighter tone, it resembled a glowing halo.

For some reason and out of nowhere, you recalled the phrase ‘I once saw a man so beautiful I started crying’ and had to wonder if the author of those words thought of this man when writing them down. You could totally see that happening.

Your gaze was glued to him, the depth of his eyes leaving you unable to form words.

“I hate dreams like this,” he whispered hoarsely, sending a shiver down your spine.

His voice, god, his voice, the one you had heard in the video, carrying the same pain, but more importantly, the one you had been hearing in your dreams … said the words written on your skin. There was no doubt now.

It didn’t make you less dumbfounded. What should you even say in a moment like this? What could you say to a man who was your soulmate, the mere sight of you chasing tears into his eyes, because you were supposed to be dead?  

“I’m sorry?” you offered hesitantly, causing the man – Steve, Steve Rogers, he had a name, he was your soulmate for god’s sake – release a choked sound. You needed no other confirmation of your words matching the mark on his collarbone.

Also, go me. What a first line to bless him with on his skin.

No other words were exchanged, two people utterly mesmerized by one another, starring at each other in stunned silence.

Agent Romanoff, leaning onto the doorframe, cleared her throat, causing you both to wince. You had totally forgotten about her, to be honest. Clearly, so had the captain.

“Before you ask: yes, she’s real, Steve. Very real,” she emphasized as if she wanted to prove his exclaim about dreams wrong. “She’ll explain what she can, which… isn’t much. Just so you know we ran every test possible already. She’s no faker. I’ll leave you two some privacy.”

With a quiet clank, the door closed shut when she slipped from the room and seemingly, she took all the air from your lungs with her. Or maybe just your ability to speak, you weren’t sure.

“You’re… what—how?” he asked, his face pure shock, unhealthily pale.

Seeing a tear rolling down his cheek and hearing his voice crack nearly broke your heart.

You had a feeling you had always been a softie, the story about soul bonds torn apart enough to make you weepy… living it though? Being in the centre of such heart-breaking story, standing few feet from the man who had lost his soulmate, being able to almost touch the pain and shock on his face, only now noticing the lines of exhaustion, the bags under his eyes… your own eyes started to burn with tears. Again.

He took several hesitant steps closer, his gaze fixed on your features.

“Ca-captain Rogers, I…” His face twisted in a strange grimace, causing your stomach to clench. He probably wasn’t happy about you calling him that. You had been calling him Steve, at least in the video. Obviously. “I mean… Mr. Rogers. Steve.”

He seemed utterly confused and you couldn’t say you blamed him.

You were all really friggin’ confused, alright.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. You-- you-“

“Look just like the woman in the video? The one telling you to-“ let her die. Your stomach rolled over at finishing the thought. You tried to shake it off, focusing on keeping your voice somewhat even. And on actually explaining the situation as much as you could.

“I know. I didn’t remember my name, I don’t remember me, my family, my friends. I don’t… I don’t remember you and yet… there is no way I’m not the person everyone claims I am and you… you seem familiar and I heard your voice in my dream, which is entirely crazy and…-”

Steve watched you, mesmerized and frowning as you chuckled self-depreciatingly. Not knowing what to say next, you unbuttoned the top of your shirt, revealing your collarbone, first the crossed-out words, only then the fresher ones.

Steve erased the distance between you completely, reluctantly holding the hem of your shirt to see.

And the strangest thing was that you wanted him to linger with his gaze. To touch your skin even, run his fingertips over the words, hell, place a kiss over them… and it should freak you out, wanting this from a stranger, but it felt right. You weren’t intimidated by the intimate proximity of a man whom you just met. You liked it. You felt safe. You longed for his arms around you.

Rather than saying your desires out loud – and it would be ridiculously easy under his intent eyes – you breathed in slowly and collected your thoughts.

“I’m… this is gonna sound insane, but Ms. Romanoff already heard this whole story and I know it’s incredible, ‘cause it kinda involves angels and resurrections, but if you’re willing to listen-“

“I’ll listen,” he promised lowly, his brilliant eyes – not blue as you thought at first, but with a little drop of green paint in them, as if God thought of the blue being too perfect and the joke ended up being on him, because they were breath-taking – meeting yours, a vow heavier than his words written in them.

Your breath hitched when the pools of the fascinating colour welcomed you sincerely. You… you wanted to drown in them.

“Thank you. I… you should see something first though.”

“More than the words?” he asked in a whisper, bewildered.

You nodded, taking a hesitant step back, his fingers hovering in the air for few seconds, twitching even, before his hands fell to his sides. You hastily fished out your fake ID to cover the fact his motions made you blush and handed the item to Steve, who frowned in confusion.

You licked your lips and went to explain.

“Sam, Dean and Cas – the men who helped me to get here and find you – they…” How exactly you should put that? Telling a superhero that they faked your ID? “-ugh, they found me and faked my ID since I needed it in order to… eh, exist. And I don’t remember a thing, alright? I didn’t know my name until I read about myself on the internet and Ms. Romanoff – Natasha, ironically – confirmed it, along with the Jarvis. So I picked one. ‘Natasha’ came to my mind first. And-“

“-and Rogers,” he breathed out, slowly lifting his gaze. You couldn’t read his expression, but there was undeniable fascination in his sparkling irises.

“I don’t know you and yet I do. I don’t remember us, but there’s this feeling. I believe this isn’t a coincidence. Or maybe it’s nothing,” you chuckled self-depreciatingly once more. God, what were you doing now… “Maybe I’m not supposed to be here, maybe I’m being silly now-“

Steve interrupted you with a watery laugh, tears springing from his eyes. The sound shut your mouth effectively, surprising you greatly.

“What?”

“It was one of the first things you told me. You being silly. Stupid even,” he explained and your chest tightened. What did that mean? And how could you not remember that dammit!

“…oh. Did you… agree?” you pried, worrying your teeth over your lower lip, only to earn a gentle shake of his head.

“No.”

“What did you say?”

A sad smile graced his lips, soft thing full of sorrow and fondness. “I’ll tell you later if you still want me to.”

“I will!” you reassured him swiftly, perhaps to eagerly. You weren’t sure whether it was the prospect of his presence or learning about yourself (and him) that had you so eager. Probably a bit of both. “I… I’d like to hear the story behind my soulmark too... and to know yours.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “Okay. I promise to tell you everything I know as long as you ask it.”

The message of you having the courtesy to set the direction and pace of the next moments – or perhaps hours, days – didn’t escape your attention and warmed you heart, causing your lips to turn upright a fraction.

“You’re a truly kind person, aren’t you?” you more stated than asked lowly and Steve lowered his gaze as if sheepish, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes frantically searched the room.

“You… uhm, you can judge that later. Why don’t… why don’t we sit on the couch?”

And here went the kindness again…

“I’d like that. I think it’s better if you sit down for what I have to say too.”

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

You were surprised Steve didn’t interrupt you once.

Sure, his face spoke volumes whenever you found enough courage to look up at it, instead of keeping your gaze down in your lap, mostly fascinated by your fiddling fingers.

At the end of your narration, you shrugged and sighed in relief of getting it all out.

“So, here I am. Zero memory besides the dreams of you talking to me and calling me ‘doll’. I’ve seen a video of myself dying, learned about people actually lighting candles for me all over the United States, like I’m… I don’t know. That’s a kind of thing done for Princess Diana, for god’s sake. I did my reading – because I don’t remember who that was. I don’t know things and I—I don’t want to complain, I was apparently brought back from death, I should-- I should be grateful, I know that much, and I am, okay, but-“

You weren’t sure when you had lost control over your brain to mouth filter, when you had lost control over your emotions, because since meeting him, you had been somehow coping, so why now, why-- why were you just pouring words to the limited space between you and couldn’t just stop-

Large, slightly calloused and very much warm hand caught your suddenly trembling fingers. Your mouth fell shut, your eyelids closing on instinct. Why was there the burn in your eyes again as if you wanted to cry? You had no right to cry.

…did you?

“Hey, hey, don’t do this,” Steve coaxed you, his other hand brushing your shoulder and you just wanted him to hug you. You would take the soothing touch and calming circles drawn on your shoulder since he offered at least that though, but god, a hug would feel so much better. “You lost your memories. Your life.”

“You lost your soulmate,” you whispered back, opening your eyes with a shaky breath. He averted your gaze and you caught a flicker of shame and anger before he did so.

“I killed my soulmate,” he corrected you, his voice turning hoarse and hard, his touch disappearing from you. You wanted it back instantly, already missing it and hating how his hands clenched into fists in what could be self-hatred.

You shook your head. You two were being ridiculous and downright stupid. Instead of being happy to find each other again – though not quite – you were having a pity party and going for guilt trips. You bit your lip nervously when reaching to cover one of his fists for a change.

His fingers immediately twitched and you fought the instinct to pull away. Or lean in?

“You were given an impossible choice, Steve. No one can blame you for trying to save everyone.”

“I can. I do… as should you,” he uttered and you sighed, realizing that maybe he did believe you that you meant it – maybe he didn’t –, but it didn’t matter as long as it was eating him up from inside.

You shrugged rather light-heartedly, but took special care to emphasize every word that came out of your mouth next, to show you were hundred percent serious and honest.

“Well, I guess I don’t. All of this sucks and I cannot imagine what it’s like for you, me being here, maybe acting… differently than—ugh, than me. The me you know. The me that remembered us. But I’m here. Alive. If there’s a chance…”

This got him look at you, expression conflicted. Yeah, you understood ‘conflicted’, alright. You wanted to learn everything you forgot, but upon saying out loud how hard it must have been for him, you realized just how natural would be for him to ask you to leave and let him have his peace after… everything.

“But if… if you want me to leave, I mean, I won’t be very happy about it, but-“

His fist opened immediately, gripping your hand almost painfully before you could even pull away an inch.

“Please don’t!” he pleaded hastily, effectively starling you. His features softened when you nodded then, his eyes burning with sincerity. “If you still want to hear about how we met…”

“I’d like that very much,” you attempted to smile at him, calmness washing over you when his face lit up.

Crisis averted.

Though not the threat for your heart. It didn’t ache as much as it had when you first entered – but boy, now it started swelling in your chest as his eyes sparkled, his whole being coming a bit more to life. It was a breath-taking show to watch.

“Do you want something to drink? I’m being a terrible host, sorry-“

He stood up quickly, releasing your hand, his own instantly going to clutch at the fabric of his sweats. It was endearing, seeing him being the nervous one.

“Feels like you’d be entitled. But you’re doing fine, Steve.”

“O-okay. Tea?”

“I guess…? I found out I don’t really have a thing for coffee…?” you explained hesitantly and for some reason, it brought a smile to Steve’s face. Maybe there was a story?

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Right. You probably hadn’t been a coffee person before- before. That would make sense. Him knowing that would make even more sense.

“Well, I’m glad at least some things apparently don’t change.”

A hint of a blush painted his cheeks and you watched him, fascinated. Aw, now that was so precious. Why blush though?

“I… uhm, I still have what used to be your favourite tea stocked, so… maybe that?”

Your lips parted at his thoughtfulness. It made you wonder though; just how far your relationship had been when you had… ugh, died? Were you official? Probably. Was there any funny business involved?  With your dreams, you had a pretty good idea about that, but you could never be sure they weren’t just memories of your fantasies. Were there… plans for the future already?

Just how well did you know each other? How much you were robbed of? How much of you Steve was missing? How could you not remember this amazing man, who apparently cared about you so deeply?

Your dark thoughts must have shown on your face, because he wavered.

“Or not. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh, freak you out or-“

“No! That’s not—it’s just-I--it-ugh-“ Oh wow, you were so terrible at speaking. ”That… the tea, yeah, that sounds pretty nice.”

His smile had faltered earlier, now returning, only less convincing. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

“And I’ll be waiting right here,” you declared, patting the couch with both hands for demonstration.

Perhaps it was only your imagination, but he actually seemed assured at that. Less worried.

Yeah, you definitely made that up.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Part 16

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Thank you for reading!

I hope the wait was worth it ;) Yeah/nah? Btw, Natasha called ‘Nat’ a cutie (or a loved one).

[hydrangeasimagination]

Crossover Crush Competition

Wherein which our dear characters meet their rival for your affections.

The twist is that they're from somewhere else.

Another universe!

I've been writing a lot of BNHA but we need some more love for the two other fandoms I write for!

But let's get into the contestants.... Shall we?

Thoughts in quotes are italicized.

In Kusuo’s case, words spoken through telepathy are bolded and italicized and are in quotes. 

~ Dari

Round 1

Saiki Kusuo VS. Manuda Kaede (Saiki K & Kakegurui)

"It seems this is a running theme."

The thought was drier as the would-be tone used. Saiki's eyes didn't leave the bouncing form in the distance, the blur of two figures coming closer and becoming more clear with every step.

He'd wait though.

Always for you.

With that sweet as sugar smile he silently admired, you practically sang, "Kusuo!!"

His gaze drifted to the tall boy beside you. Just barely able to keep his expression neutral when he felt the onslaught of unpleasant thoughts from his head.

"So, this is the one that Jabami mentioned... I don't quite see what the fuss is."

Saiki nearly cringed, catching himself before he'd rolled his eyes.

It seems brooding megane were the type you attracted.

"What a pain."

"Kusuo, this is my friend from school," You gestured "Manyuda - senpai, this is Kusuo! My childhood friend."

Violet clashed with onyx, gazes hardening once they've crossed.

The psychic nearly considered taking off his own lenses, but with you there, he couldn't risk it.

No matter.

"Nice to meet you." The white haired male stiffly greeted. "I will be joining you both on this study session."

Kusuo just nodded.

Slowly, dark eyes flickered to give him a once over whilst the dialogue in his head played out. "There's nothing noteworthy of this Saiki Kusuo, seemed I was concerned for nothing. I don't understand why there's nothing but pictures of him in that notebook."

A fury blazed under his skin once those thoughts reached him, it'd apparently started showed in his face as he sees Manyuda narrow his eyes in return. But he didn't let him get the satisfaction for losing his temper for no good reason. Especially not in front of you.

"Ku?" The chime of your voice was filled with concern, making butterflies come alive in his stomach to overtake the anger.

"Let's go, my mom probably set out snacks."

Pointedly, he made eye contact with Manyuda and reached to take your hand.

A smug smile threatened to pull at his lips as he saw his shoulders tense.

"... Perhaps he is more of a threat than I thought."

Oh, he had no idea.

Round 2

Teruhashi Kokomi VS. Bakugo Katsuki (Saiki K & BNHA)

Teruhashi had a problem with Bakugo Katsuki.

He was a brute would be her first gripe.

Crude, rude, mouthy - not to mention cocky, self-righteous, and just straight up arrogant. It'd made him completely immune to her charms, even though he'd never hope to match up to her beauty.

Though she begrudgingly admitted he is good looking, though not enough to act how he does.

But that wasn't the root cause of the issue.

He was smart.

So much so that he could tell that she was putting up a front the entire time. It was frustrating how observant he was as it'd made him call her out even at risk of his own reputation.

Though it's clear he didn't care what people thought about him anyway so he has nothing to lose. He looked through her like it was the easiest thing he'd ever done.

But that wasn't the problem either.

Even though he drove her nuts with his indifference to her, his annoyance at her very presence.

How he'd branded her a “fake” and an “extra” boiled her blood.

She was tough - as thick skin was something she had to have as the pretty and perfect girl.

Bakugo Katsuki is a menace.

A handsome, smart, talented, menace that knew what he wanted.

They'd be a powerful pair if it weren't for one factor...

Her problem was him being around you.

Her crush.

You were lovely! So charming and soft, there's no pressure to be perfect around you because of that sugary aura and lovingly accepting nature. That tendency to fire back and match a flame makes you terribly alluring...

Much to her dismay, she wasn't the only one that thought so.

She sees how he looks at you.

How different he treats you to the rabble...

It makes her skin crawl.

"Hello, Teruhashi - san!" Chirpy and upbeat, bright eyes and all, the requisite greeting she'd grown endeared to.

"... Faker." Bakugo hissed, eyes suspiciously trained on her smile.

He stood unnecessarily close to you, hands stuffed into the pockets of his sagging pants. She could tell he was itching to hold your hand, not unlike her.

The two of them were prideful though.

Unwilling to back down.

"Shall we go? That sweets shop isn't going to be open forever." Kokomi beamed at you nonetheless, radiance pouring from her.

There was no stares of envy directed at them, likely having been scared off by the explosive blond. Knowing of his dislike for her helped in that case too.

"Sounds good." You hummed, unaware of the tension between your friends.

Carmine met sapphire.

Bolts of electricity shot between them, competitive and fiery.

It pained her to admit that he was a worthy rival.

But there can only be one victor.

Round 3

Saotome Mary VS. Uraraka Ochako (Kakegurui & BNHA)

Carefully setting teeth, careful not to grind. Withholding from speaking ruinous words lest favor is tipped differently. Peals of jealously curled deep in her gut, only barely offset by the feelings of affection blanketing her in warmth.

Uraraka was simply too cute.

Too nice.

There's no way she could be this naive, right?

Mary teetered on that fine edge, unable to tell the motives of her apparently oblivious rival in romance.

She'd barely able to keep herself composed when it came to matters of the heart. Her quirk went haywire, turning so red that she'd match the blazer Mary donned.

Sutbly nonexistent in Uraraka's dictionary, plain and simple,

But her suspicion remained, ever looming and growing.

Then there was you.

Genuinely oblivious, charismatic, kind, and so endearingly stupid... No wonder the both of them vyed for your attention so readily.

Though it seemed to be unknown to Ochako that Mary was even competition.

Her thoughts buzzed, "Or...."

Biting the inside of her cheeks, golden gaze narrowing into pinpricks.

A wash of irritation.

"She didn't think I was noteworthy enough to be considered."

Not until today.

Today would be the day.

"Uraraka Ochako."

The brunette looked startled, standing betwixt her friends. Of whom were surprised to see Saotome standing before them, her head held high with a burning fire in her gaze.

Uraraka suddenly felt uneasy, judging by her look.

Both of them knew of each other, yes, but only because of associating with you.

"C - can I help you, Saotome - san?" She squeaked out, confused.

Plantings her hands on her hips, the girl in question straightened her back and stared right at her.

Between parted pink lips, dropped a bomb, "This is a declaration of war."

"E - eh? Saotome - sa -"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, not even you can be that much of an airhead." Mary scoffed gently, reaching her hand up and sweeping her pigtail back.

Her friends were unable to speak, unable to believe that this was in fact happening.

"For..."

The blond fixed her rival with a gaze, a little vindicated to watch her flinch back at the syllables of your given name. Nothing but a determination lined her eyes and she was going to make good on the promise she made.

"The rules are there will be no sabotage," She plainly stated "and we will be happy no matter which one of us wins out."

Uraraka still stood, gaping and red in the face.

Mary didn't stay for her answer, turning on her heels and knowing exactly where to find you.

This was her day after all.

She didn't turn her head, just kept walking.

Distinctly, she wondered if she'd been mistaken.

Ochako's shout made her pause mid-step, made her wait to make sure it was her rival that spoke...

After this night, there will be no mercy.

"... Let's do our best!!"

"Let's go to war."

[tamamonomaes]

For all you gil fuckers, just a reminder that this absolute piece of HEARTWARMING SIN exists. Gil openly says he loves her, (emiya acknowledges it too) and they make out amongst... Other implied things.) I STRONGLY reccomend you read the subs I've provided with the audio because Holy fuck. Have fun degenerates

0:00

Oh? So you're willing to solve this treasure's puzzle? Well, if it isn't splendid of you. Then that means you'll be staying by my side, as my attendant, does it not? Then I shall allow it. For you to stay by the side of the King of Heroes.

0:22

What a prosaic face you have while asleep. How many times has it been, that you've slept by my side... for the time being, be free to wander inside your dreams.

00:39

You've got a pretty foolish face right now, is this the so called "hovering between sleep and waking"? Hey! Don't close your eyes just as I say that! Are you planning to leave me bored?!

0:54

Noon, huh? I guess it should be time for lunch-... wait, you! Isn't your face red-... don't tell me you partook of wine on an empty stomach?! Why is it that you make a hobby out of inconveniencing me?! Even though the sun is already on it's zenith, it seems that your brain is still asleep, as usual.

What? You're already awake? In that listless condition?

Very well, this is the perfect timing to show that mad dog how to fish. I permit you to come with me, Master. To see me do every little thing perfectly, be sure to fall in love with me all over again.

1:41

The sun is finally going down huh... Seeing you illuminated by the light of the setting sun, you truly are my treasure.

....What? Why did you become restless and avoided my gaze?

Heh, did you think that I would reach for you? Very well. Let's see if you can get me into that mood.

2:09

It's almost morning, huh... So, how was it? Spending the whole day today by my side? Well, though I say that, this is just the usual, isn't it?

The night has deepened... Hm...? What's wrong? Are you feeling cold? Very well then, lean your body into mine. The coldness of the night does not discriminate after all. I permit you to draw closer to me.

Hm... Almost time for you to sleep, isn't it? If you wish for it, then it's no problem for me to lend you my arm to sleep on.

Come now, don't be ashamed. Say it honestly, and out loud.

3:00

Master, staying up late is disadvantageous in an emergency. Right now, the strongest servant is lending you his power, you should be more aware of that fact.

3:11

Hmm... what is it? Because you're moving around, even I woke up...

Come now, just behave and let me embrace you. We can wake up properly later...

3:32

There is no one else permitted to touch this King of Heroes' head but you alone.

What you're touching is my body after all, isn't it...? Come now, no need to say that, I understand perfectly.

This is not a bad sensation at all... What's wrong? I haven't given you permission to stop your hands yet.

4:01

This might seem sudden but, I am considerably pleased with your face.

Rejoice, for I am saying that your face is not bad at all!

When I think of you as mine, a rush of affection gushes forth from me.

4:19

What is it? Do you wish to draw my attention?

You really don't tire of touching me every time huh, you sure do some lovable things...

Come now, let me do the same to you...

4:35

These eyes of mine has already seen the far ends of human knowledge, these eyes have also seen the the edge of wilderness that was beyond human knowledge.

And right now... only you are reflected in these eyes of mine.

It's an honor, don't you think?

4:56

It is said that the eyes conveys a lot of things.

I have now, finally understood your passion.

What about you? Do you now understand what it is, that I want, what I demand?

You don't...? What a troublesome fellow...

Well then... let me show you exactly what it is...

5:20

Those eyes wet with lust... good, good. Now, draw a little closer to me...

These lips of mine are what you want, isn't it? An arduous poison, it might be for you, but I permit you to taste them to your heart's content...

5:20

Those eyes wet with lust... good, good. Now, draw a little closer to me...

These lips of mine are what you want, isn't it? An arduous poison, it might be for you, but I permit you to taste them to your heart's content....

Oh? Aren't you aggressive... Or is this because you got drunk on the wine's scent...?

Well, since you're already at that state, I shall let you feel this tongue of mine.

I wonder if it'll make your legs go so numb, enough for you to not be able to stand...?

5:58

Oh? Is it hard? Then, let me touch yours to compare.

Wait, why are you prying yourself away from me? You wouldn't stand without my permission now, would you?

Now, now, don't look glare at me so much. If you do it too much, even I would get angry, you know.

Or rather than that... are you satisfied by merely staring at me?

6:29

Of course, it cannot be helped that one would unconsciously reach out for my perfectly sculpted body.

Don't be shy and restrain yourself by just touching me with your fingertips... I shall give you special permission to touch me more brazenly!

6:45

I don't feel hungry yet. When that time comes, I will inform you.

For now, just stay quietly by my side... if you do so, I shall cherish you.

7:01

So, you've finally discovered that heat sleeping inside of you, huh? What, isn't it just human nature to seek pleasure?

Very well then, I shall let you taste it to your heart's content.

Though you are my master, aren't you no different from a mongrel urged by desire?

No, it's not like I don't want to do it, but there is a thing called "time and place", is there not...?

Though both of those are fulfilled right now...

7:36

Amongst the mongrels thriving in this world, there are those who are engulfed but this*, right?

What about you, are you one of them? Or are you one that engulfs instead?

What, isn't it natural for me to want to know more about what is mine?

If you possess this, you could continue to exchange drinks with this King of Heroes. Come now, don't be so stiff.

Seriously, how many years has it been and have you still not get used to being loved by me?

*it's not clear, but I think he's referring to the grail

8:11

Emiya: Ah, it's you. What a coincidence, I didn't think that I would meet you here. I was just about to go home and make some tea, would you like some?

Gil: Wait, you fool! Who gave you permission to talk to her?! And of course, tea poured by a droll like you would be third rate!

I'm several times better than him, Master!

Hm? That's-... Hey! Faker!You bastard, don't you dare come any closer to her!

Emiya: Is there any problem with me being next to her?

Ahh, I see. That was rude of me.

Were you worried that the princess that you finally got your hands on would change her mind?

As a master, I'm sure you're having a hard time.

I'm sure there are other servants who'll be able to understand you better, someone you could utilize better, and would compliment you better.

Gil: Don't dare come any closer to her! Don't you have any idea to whom this woman belongs to? What, are you trying to seduce a married woman?

Emiya: How unexpected. I've thought of you as an unreasonable man. But it seems that you're the type that exerts all effort for the one they've fallen in love with, huh.

Gil: Of course! Who do you think I am?!

I who have anticipated this treasure*, is a man who would grant any privilege. Exerting effort is a matter of course.

And you, you're truly a man who doesn't know when to quit, huh.

*this treasure = you/master

[nerianasims]

Billboard #1s 1986

Under the cut.

Dionne & Friends -- "That's What Friends Are For" -- January 18, 1986

While listening to this song, I think it's a very squishy ballad with a nice sentiment that's not for me but is tolerable. Until a certain point. That point is when Elton John has his big part. Dionne Warwick, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight: Great, amazing, I love them, and though their talents are wasted on a song this slight, they make it listenable. Elton John's talents are not wasted on a song this slight. Couldn't they have brought in someone else? There's no way Prince would do something like this, but what about Paul McCartney? Kenny Loggins? Billy Ocean? I guess George Michael was too young for the song's schtick. But I'd take even Lionel Richie over Elton John.

Whitney Houston -- "How Will I Know" -- February 15, 1986

Whitney Houston was an amazing, phenomenally talented singer. And she oversang. Almost all the time. She didn't have to; she knew how to sing with subtlety and grace. But oversinging was (and is) popular, so that's what she did. It means I don't like most of her songs, including this one.

Mr. Mister -- "Kyrie" -- March 1, 1986

I'm not Christian any more, but one can pull inspiration from anywhere. I love the phrase "kyrie eleison." There's something beautiful about that combination of sounds, and there's also something beautiful about the sentiment. The music does not live up to it, unfortunately, though the opening is gorgeous. It also gets super repetitive at the end. It's pretty good, but I want it to be great, and sadly it is not.

Starship -- "Sara" -- March 15, 1986

I'm going to have to listen to "White Rabbit" a dozen times to cleanse this from my brain. A band that used to do stuff like that devolving into making this garbage is extremely depressing. This song starts with music box tinkling which sounds nice. Then saxophone over it which... okay. Just the sax would have been nice, but over the music box it's a little much, but I can keep going with it. Then they add a harmonica layered over it, and it's like I'm listening to a parody of mid-80s easy listening. And then randomly there's a drum crash and the weak voice of this guy comes in along with massive synth, and I start to wonder if I'm being punked. Are we sure this song wasn't a joke?

Heart -- "These Dreams" -- March 22, 1986

I watched the video probably hundreds of times when I was a kid. (On Betamax!) I adore this song. I got to it and went well, this is gonna win 1986, because there's only so much rational distance I can take from what was my favorite pop song when I was 9 years old. This song didn't start my Romantic sensibility, but it spoke to what was already in bloom. "There's something out there I can't resist." We'll see what else is on the list.

Falco -- "Rock Me Amadeus" -- March 29, 1986

I love the movie Amadeus, even though it constitutes a massive slander against poor Salieri. It gets Mozart pretty spot-on though. And I always loved classical music, was surrounded by it from infancy, so I was glad to see its popularity spread by the movie. (Yes, at age nine. I've always been a huge nerd.) This song is really fun and well-made too, though of course I can't understand any of the German lyrics.

Prince -- "Kiss" -- April 19, 1986

Prince sings this almost entirely in falsetto, so one would guess I would hate it, since falsetto usually sends me running in the other direction. One would be wrong. I adore it. Prince was that kind of artist -- he could get away with anything. He was notoriously arrogant, but was it really arrogance when it was just a proper conception of his own abilities? Anyway,

of course "you don't have to be cool to rule my world" deeply spoke to my experiences. I was the most uncool girl in school. Until high school, when somehow my not giving a damn about being cool (as I'd failed at it my whole life) actually helped me.

Also when Prince drops to a low note on the last "kiss," it is incredibly hot.

Robert Palmer -- "Addicted to Love" -- May 3, 1986

I have no idea what I'd think of this song without the video. The video infuriates me. The clone-looking emotionless women aren't "sexualized." No, you have to be treated like a human being on at least some level for that. They are purely objectified, treated literally as blank interchangeable things, with nothing at all inside them. The song is skeevy anyway, though I guess the music's good. But blech.

Pet Shop Boys -- "West End Girls" -- May 10, 1986

I've never liked this song and I've never really understood why. It's the kind of song I felt I should like. But I've always felt (since I noticed it as a teenager) that there was something missing. Now I know why: According to the Stereogum article about it, the band leader doesn't like rock n'roll, and is a pop critic. Oh. Some rock is exactly what this song needs. Without it, it's too cold and removed, and to me sounds smug. Also how can you be a pop critic and not like rock n' roll? That is a wrongness.

Whitney Houston -- "Greatest Love of All" -- May 17, 1986

Whitney Houston doesn't oversing on this song as much as usual, so that's good. Though she still oversings. What's not good are the music and lyrics. The music is bland as can be. Lyrically, it starts with "I believe the children are our future" and there's a verse about "the beauty they possess inside." Blargh.

Then after the first verse there's a total change in theme, going into how the narrator never found anyone to look up to. And that the "greatest love" is loving yourself and only depending on yourself and no one else. I despise this sentiment deep in my bones. Not of loving yourself -- though the song claims that's "easy to achieve," which is bollocks of the first order. Rather that you should only depend on yourself. That's literally inhuman. We are social creatures; without depending on each other, we are adrift in nothingness. So yeah. I hate this song.

Madonna -- "Live to Tell" -- June 7, 1986

This song gives me chills. The music is gorgeous and perfectly suited to the lyrics. I listened to the "True Blue" tape many, many times from about age 10 until, um. Well, I listened to the album on Spotify the other night. This song is the standout for me on it. I always thought that Madonna was singing about having been emotionally abused as a child herself. That is apparently not it at all; it's a song for a movie soundtrack. But to me it's about familial abuse. And always has been. It felt like she was singing for me. "The light that you could never see/ It shines inside, you can't take that from me."

Patti LaBelle & Michael McDonald -- "On My Own" -- June 14, 1986

Not the Les Miz song, sadly. It's about how the narrators are breaking up. Patti LaBelle is great, but I am so bored. Michael McDonald isn't bad, but he can't match Patti LaBelle, and even she can't stop this song from being deadly dull. It took me like 5 tries to be able to listen to the whole thing.

Billy Ocean -- "There'll Be Sad Songs (To Make You Cry)" -- July 5, 1986

What makes someone decide to put a parenthetical in a song title? Is there a formula? Anyway, he's singing (in his head) to someone he wants to be with. The "sad songs" are not actually supposed to be sad songs, it seems, but love songs that make him think of her. I guess. I don't know. Something about this song is turning my brain to mush. The tinkly parts and the violins are nice I guess. But I'm going to fall asleep at my desk if I try to listen to this song any more.

Simply Red -- "Holding Back the Years" -- July 12, 1986

Just looking at the lyrics, this song should be deeply depressing. He feels that so far his life has been a waste, but somehow he'll "keep holding on." There's a beautiful saxophone part. The song is not depressing -- it's Blues. It's terribly sad and cathartic at the same time. I'm not thrilled with Mick Hucknall's voice though.

Genesis -- "Invisible Touch" -- July 19, 1986

I did not pay attention to any of the lyrics of this song except the chorus until just now. I thought it was about a woman with an "invisible touch" whom people fall for left and right, and that's true. What I did not know was that she was supposed to be doing it on purpose. Which, okay, sort of like "Maneater"? Except no, because "Well I don't really know her, I only know her name." Then how do you know this about her?! He sounds like a stalker. Or this sounds like a first draft. The music is good enough, and the chorus could make for a good song around it lyrically, if they had bothered with that.

Peter Gabriel -- "Sledgehammer" -- July 26, 1986

I used to think this song was meant to be about a guy who was going to basically tank for you (and also have sex with you.) Well, apparently he wants to solve only one of your problems in particular: namely, that of your lacking orgasms. The "sledgehammer" is supposed to be a metaphor for his dick. Ow? Whatever, I'm going with my own interpretation of it. I like the beginning flute part, which is actually from a keyboard demo. It's a fun song, but it gets pretty repetitive.

Peter Cetera -- "Glory of Love" -- August 2, 1986

"We did it all for the glory of love" is a sentiment I usually adore. But this song is a limp dishrag. Did what for the glory of love? Why does she seem to be thinking of leaving him? And Peter Cetera being "the man who will fight for your honor" is a hilarious idea. His voice is nasally and he sounds like a faker. He comes off as someone who only vaguely understands the small-r romance of flowers and chocolates, and not at all as someone who understands the Romance of a castle far away. Bryan Adams did much better with this kind of thing in the 90s.

Madonna -- "Papa Don't Preach" -- August 16, 1986

The article I'm reading about this says there was a controversy over this song regarding abortion somehow, with left-wingers being upset that the narrator didn't consider it and right-wingers praising her for keeping the baby. Maybe in California. That is not what I remember in Michigan, and I do clearly remember a controversy. What I remember is right-wingers being absolutely incensed that Madonna was singing about the pregnancy of an unmarried young woman (or teenager, though I always felt the narrator was college-age) at all. I also remember one on the radio being angry that this working class girl was keeping her baby rather than giving it up to a rich family.

It is a really good song. Actually it is kinda Romantic. The narrator's in a dramatic life-changing situation, she has to choose whether or not to marry a guy before she's sure she's ready, and there are intense violins. Her father disapproves of her boyfriend, but she needs her father's advice. She's also not ashamed. She's in a difficult situation, but there's no guilt. Good. And this is what made so many people so angry with Madonna, and what was so deeply important about Madonna. She refused to even pretend to be guilty about sex in her music, ever.

Steve Winwood -- "Higher Love" -- August 30, 1986

I think this is about wanting to believe in a god. But then there's "I could make the sun shine from pure desire." Maybe it's about Aphrodite. Chaka Khan sings on this song, and she's obviously the best thing about it. It's not great, but it's enjoyable enough.

Bananarama -- "Venus" -- September 6, 1986

Speaking of higher loves. Bananarama are obviously having a wonderful time singing this 80s dance version of this song, and who wouldn't? The "she's got it" of the song of course also means "I've got it", hence "I'm your Venus." And Bananarama leans into that in a really fun way. It's a great version of a great song.

Berlin -- "Take My Breath Away" -- September 13, 1986

This is the big love ballad from Top Gun. I have managed to escape ever seeing Top Gun, though I've picked up some ideas about it. Mainly that it's a commercial for the U.S. air force, that Tom Cruise looks blank in it a lot, and that there's some kind of volleyball scene. Before I knew it was a commercial for the U.S. air force and therefore avoided it, I avoided it because of Tom Cruise. He has always been a total cold shower to me. As I've said since I started noticing these things (which was right around 1986), he reminds me of a Ken doll.

So the song. It sounds more like it belongs with a fantasy movie than in a modern military movie. Though I guess Top Gun is a fantasy too. But not the kind in which people usually look through hourglasses. It's a big, emotional ballad. I like it but I don't love it. If it weren't associated with Top Gun possibly I'd like it more.

Huey Lewis and the News -- "Stuck With You" -- September 20, 1986

This is a middle-aged man singing to his middle-aged wife about how he's "happy to be stuck with you." It's like if dad jokes became sentient and got married. It's cute and bouncy, and honestly pretty true-to-life. You can't be all higher love all the time.

Janet Jackson -- "When I Think of You" -- October 11, 1986

If "Nasty" had gotten to #1, it would have taken my "best of the year" spot. Sadly, it didn't, and this was Janet Jackson's first #1. "When I Think of You" is a really good song though. Janet Jackson is the best of the Jacksons and always was in every way. I think she was even a better dancer than Michael. (I don't know about "is", considering her age, but she's still a better artist.) "When I Think of You" is a very simple love song lyrically. When her "world gets crazy," she thinks of you to calm down. If this were easy listening, it would be unbearable. But it's a dance song, and a fun one. There's some great bass and interesting syncopation.

Cyndi Lauper -- "True Colors" -- October 25, 1986

This is such a beautiful song. It's helped me through some rough times ever since it came out -- the tape it's on was one of my first. It's straightforward in both lyrics and music, so there's not much to say about it besides that it's a great song.

Boston -- "Amanda" -- November 8, 1986

I am listening to this song now, and I don't recognize it. When they get to the chorus near the end it sounds kinda familiar, but I'm not sure that's because I recognize this song in particular, or because it sounds like every song like this in existence was put in a blender and this is the resulting slurry. Either this wasn't played on the radio much where I lived, or I changed the channel as soon as it was. It wants to be a power ballad, but it's an absolute nothing.

The Human League -- "Human" -- November 22, 1986

I guess it's an apology song, but "I'm only human" doesn't sit right with me as a real apology for something truly bad. He cheated on her. Which I do consider forgivable, depending on the circumstances and apology, but his is that she wasn't around so he was driven to cheat on her. And he should forgive her because he's "only human." Then the woman comes in and says she cheated on him too when they were apart, because she's human too. That makes the song tolerable. Maybe they need an open relationship. They still both sound whiny. And I don't like the music. It's boring and repetitive.

Bon Jovi -- "You Give Love a Bad Name" -- November 29, 1986

SHOT THROUGH THE HEART! AND YOU'RE TO BLAME! I love this song. Also I thought Jon Bon Jovi was hot at the time, though nowadays that 80s perm is hilarious. His voice is still hot though (so is he nowadays, grey hair and all, with his more contemporary haircut.) This song got plenty of radio play. Still does. And deserves it. It's technically a heartbreak song I suppose, but the video gets it right: It's Bon Jovi goofing around on stage in front of a joyous crowd. I love the bass, I love the guitars, and I did mention Jon Bon Jovi's voice is hot, right? Voices over looks every time for me, though both together is obviously welcome.

Peter Cetera and Amy Grant -- "The Next Time I Fall" -- December 6, 1986

Christian fundies had a deep and abiding hatred for Peter Cetera. Maybe they still do. I encountered this multiple times online over the years, and finally looked it up -- it's because of this song. Amy Grant used to be a singer of Christian music only. Then she had a pop hit with this dweeb, and certain usual suspects decided she was being corrupted by him.

The only way this song could corrupt anyone is if they started smashing things because they were so bored. The narrators have been heartbroken but are gonna try it again with each other, and it's as passionless as possible. Amy Grant's a better singer than Cetera by a ways, as she does not sing through her nose, but it's not like anyone could elevate this sludge.

Bruce Hornsby and the Range -- "The Way It Is" -- December 13, 1986

People are racist and treat poor people like shit. And people say that's just the way it is, but don't you believe them. This is true. We have come incredibly far, and things change. It's a good sermon, but as a song it's too simplistic for me, both musically and lyrically. I agree with the sentiment, but it's not a song I really want to listen to either.

The Bangles -- "Walk Like an Egyptian" -- December 20, 1986

Of course I loved this song when I was a kid, all the kids did. But I was already a Bangles fan. I had their first tape, which is their best and has the least pop sheen. I would prefer "Hero Takes a Fall" had been a big hit, but oh well. "Walk Like an Egyptian" is still fun.

BEST OF 1986 -- "These Dreams" by Heart  WORST OF 1986 -- "Sara" by Starship

[obsessedwithbbandsuju]

Faker | Prologue

Kpop Mafia!AU – YG and SM have been rivals for a good many years, but Yang Hyunsuk and Lee Sooman have both agreed to take the option that seems entirely implausible to everyone working under them: an alliance. And it will have to be sealed with something meaningful.

Warnings: Violence, smut

Pairing: Park Jungsoo/Son Taeyeon

“So these are all the children you’ve managed to find this month?” Hyunsuk asked, all the while not even bothering to look at the man at whom the question was directed. Instead, his sharp gaze swept over the children. The building wasn’t terribly fancy, nor was it something that would be considered fit for children, but after feeding, clothing, and letting them bathe, the children that they had brought in didn’t seen too unhappy. Still, the smarter, more experienced ones – the majority of the children, as most of the others had likely died already – continued to glance around warily. The ones that wouldn’t have survived if they’d been left out there much longer were already starting to loosen up, looking around with expressions of curiosity.

“For the most part, sir. There’s one more,” the man explained, and it was only then that Hyunsuk bothered to fix his eyes on him.

“Where?”

“She’s upstairs, sir. Room farthest down the hall.”

“Didn’t come down with the others?” These types of children tended to do what other children around them did. Safety in numbers, and it was difficult for them to trust adults.

“No, sir. She stayed completely still while the other children were being brought downstairs. One of our staff asked her if she wanted to come down. She said no.”

Without another word, Hyunsuk left the children to climb the stairs to the second floor. As he had expected, they would all be fairly useful in being trained as low or middle-ranking members of YG. The vast majority of the children brought in were.

He reached the second floor and walked down the long corridor to the room at the end. The door was slightly ajar, and through the crack he could see the back view of a young girl. She was sitting on a stool near the back of the room, swinging her legs.

Hyunsuk almost walked away. Swinging her legs – there was no way she could even have any type of common sense if she was relaxed enough to be swinging her legs in a situation like this. But, reminding himself that there was more to this girl than met the eye – there was more to every human than met the eye, after all – he opened the door further.

The girl looked up at him as he approached. She had straight black hair that reached her shoulders and pale skin. As her eyes, large and pale hazel with a hint of grey, settled on him, Hyunsuk almost paused in his tracks. Almost.

Even for a child who had grown up on the streets, her stare was different. It was observant – calculating. Sizing him up, gauging his intentions, estimating the danger that he posed.

It was a very excellent foundation for a member of YG, one that usually didn’t come around until about age thirteen or fourteen.

“Hi.” Hyunsuk kept his voice friendly.

“Hi.” Now that he was closer, he could see that the girl was working on a puzzle. The box lying next to it revealed that it was a thousand pieces in total, all of which were complete solid black. The puzzle itself was a little over two-thirds complete. Hyunsuk was surprised.

“Did you do this?” he asked. The girl nodded.

Hyunsuk examined her carefully for a few more seconds, his conviction growing stronger by the minute.

“What’s your name?”

She gave him another brief evaluation, clearly deciding if she should tell him or not. If he intended to hurt her in any way. He didn’t.

“I don’t have one.” The reply was matter-of-fact. Hyunsuk couldn’t tell if she was being honest or not, but he could tell if the fact mattered to her. And it didn’t. She wasn’t trying to fool him out of any attachment to a name she might have, if she did have a name. She might really not have one, or she might have one, but if she did it was one that she didn’t care about.

“How old are you?”

“Seven.”

Seven years old and this. Hyunsuk had no more doubts. He nodded, pulling out the seat next to her and settling in it. The girl turned back to her puzzle, and it took her only a few seconds to determine the location of another piece. She slid it in, and it clacked into place.

“I’m going to adopt you,” he said, deciding that it was best to tell her as soon as possible. He wasn’t sure what kind of response he’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. The girl gave no reaction whatsoever. She didn’t even look at him; her gaze stayed firmly fixated on the puzzle pieces. Gingerly, she picked up another one and set it into its spot.

“Don’t you care?”

“I do, a little bit.” It was almost alien that she was so sincerely telling the truth. “But I’m not really surprised. I can’t imagine what else you would want with kids.”

Interesting. Her assessment had some flaws, but for her age, her unruffled demeanor alone was remarkable. Hyunsuk decided to test her further. “I could want to carve open their bodies and use them in the organ trafficking market,” he said. The girl looked away from the puzzle, only two pieces left until it was finished, and focused on him.

“Unless you were especially an asshat, I don’t see why you would feed them, give them clothes, and wash them.”

“You’re right,” Hyunsuk conceded. “Unless I was a particularly gleeful sadist, I probably wouldn’t.”

“What’s a sa-dist?” A gleam of interest appeared in her hazel eyes. It was the most passionate reaction that he’d seen out of her so far.

“Someone who really enjoys hurting others.” Hyunsuk leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully. She seemed intensely pleased to have learned the word, mouthing it to herself a few times over.

“You know,” he said, “I could have been a pedophile. Washing and feeding and clothing these children because I want to doll them up for myself.”

As opposed to her curious reaction to the word ‘sadist’, it was clear that the girl understood exactly what a pedophile was. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pressed together in a grim line, and her brows dipped in an expression of revulsion. “That’s disgusting.”

“It is,” Hyunsuk agreed. “But don’t worry; you’re right, I’m not gathering children for that. You were correct, actually. Even though you didn’t think of the possibility that I might be fattening the kids up for myself, did you?”

“How do I know you’re not lying now?” Her tone was guarded; suspicious. It looked like the thought of pedophiles had stirred some warning in her. Hyunsuk wondered if, at her level of repulsed disdain, she’d had firsthand experience with them. The thought, while not impossible or even unlikely – she was a child growing up on the streets, after all – was unsettling. He had been in the underground and the illegal scope long enough to know that there were plenty of pedophiles about in the world, but he wanted nothing to do with them, nor would he want her or any child to have anything to do with them, either.

“Do you think I’m lying?” Hyunsuk asked sincerely, meeting her eyes. She stared at him for a long while, brows furrowed together in concentration. It must have been at least one minute until she leaned back slightly, her observations done.

“No.” She still looked uneasy, but her answer was confident. “You’re not.”

She was healthily wary but still seemed to believe in her instincts, which was a good sign. Hyunsuk was certain now in his decision of adopting her. He’d be damned if he let this untapped well of potential go.

“My name’s Hyunsuk. Yang Hyunsuk.”

She didn’t say anything, but she looked thoughtful. Finally, her mouth opened. “Hi.”

It seemed pointless, but it was endearing in some vague way. He returned the greeting.

“If you’re going to adopt me, are you going to name me?” the girl asked. She had returned to swinging her legs. “You can’t refer to me as ‘you’ forever.”

“You’re right.” It didn’t surprise Hyunsuk that she’d taken that initiative. “Let’s give you a name first. Is there something you’d prefer?”

“Not really. Do what you want. Just don’t make it something weird.”

Amused at her childish stipulation, Hyunsuk sat back, thoughtful. He wasn’t going for something deep or meaningful; he just wanted to give her a name that was fitting for her.

“Taeyeon? How is that?”

“That’s pretty.” There was a note of satisfaction in the girl’s voice. Her eyes seemed to brighten, despite her honest claim that she didn’t really care about not having a name – it seemed that now that she had experienced having one, she liked it. “I like it.”

“Then that’s what we’ll call you.” Hyunsuk stood. “I’ll go speak to Jaehyuk about adopting you. It won’t take long.”

“Okay.” Taeyeon turned back to her puzzle, her focus shifting entirely from him to entirely on it. She seemed to have a good attention span on top of everything he had noticed about her; an untapped well of potential indeed. He didn’t know what luck brought him to Taeyeon out of all the children in the world, or if it was just pure dumb luck, but in any case he intended to do as much as he could with her.

After a ten-minute talk with Jaehyuk, for all intents and cares, Hyunsuk had adopted Taeyeon. He took her hand and led her from the building.

“You’ve adopted me,” Taeyeon spoke from her perch in the backseat, the seatbelt pulled snugly across her waist and chest, “but I don’t think I’m your daughter.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just not the impression I’m getting.”

Hyunsuk looked back at her and smiled. “Your instincts are correct, Taeyeon.” He had suspected she was sharp, and she just kept proving it to him. “I have adopted you, but you’re not my daughter. You can still call me ‘Father’, though, if you want.”

“Okay then.” The smile she sent his way was surprisingly innocent. “Father.”

~

The kid was waking up, his lanky limbs moving feebly and his head groggily turning to the side. Sooman watched intently as his subject of interest struggled to open his eyes. The boy couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old, with a youthful face and a thin, gangly body. Despite all that, the dark brown eyes that fixed on Sooman in alarm held an unusual amount of pessimism. Not the childish pessimism of a budding adolescent thinking the world was unfair for not going exactly his way, but the grown, jaded pessimism of an adult who had experienced too much hardship in too little time and knew exactly how cruel and without mercy the world was. The impression was only heightened by the ugly purple bruise decorating his neck, splayed across the pale, wet skin, dark and painful. There were thin, elongated blotches in the structure of the bruise that resembled finger marks. Sooman’s eyes narrowed, just the slightest bit.

The boy scrambled into a sitting position, the mud and grime of the garbage dumpster he was leaning against staining his face, hands, and clothes. Sooman didn’t move; any sort of movement could startle the kid, make him bolt. And while it wouldn’t be too difficult to catch him, it was also inconvenient.

“Who are you?” The kid was trying to sound tough, but it was obvious how spooked he was. His voice – on the higher, lighter pitch of the spectrum, but then again he didn’t seem to have gone through puberty yet – trembled, and he pulled his knees up to his chest in an instinctual defensive mechanism. Now that he was awake he seemed even younger; Sooman revised his opinion. No older than thirteen.

“My name’s Sooman. What’s yours?” He kept his tone open, casual, but not too friendly. If the kid felt that he was trying to butter him up, it would be harder to approach him.

A searching stare. Hesitation. Resolution of the dilemma. “J-Jungsoo.”

“And why are you sleeping out here, Jungsoo? It’s wet and cold, and I’m sure you’d prefer a variety of other places before this one.” He didn’t expect Jungsoo to answer him honestly, whatever the boy’s honesty consisted of. If he did, he would be an idiot.

Jungsoo didn’t disappoint him. “I… I come here often. I just fell asleep this time.” While the lack of honesty was all-too-plain, Sooman still approved. The child had hit good points – made sure not to give an answer that would imply he was vulnerable or not used to this place, because anyone with harmful intentions would exploit uncertainty. It was clear that Jungsoo had had that in mind in his answer, even though his delivery was less than stellar.

“So you’re homeless? No one with a home would come here often.” There was nothing to come here for. It was just a dumpster in a dark alleyway. Maybe there were some very peculiar people who liked the grime and the stench, but Jungsoo didn’t strike him as someone like that. Besides, he already knew that the kid was lying.

Jungsoo hesitated, something like conflict in his eyes. “I’m not.” That was his answer, but it seemed to lack the resolve of an honest, sincere one. Sooman arched an eyebrow, curious.

“And yet you’re here. And come here often, apparently.”

Jungsoo nodded feebly. It was clear that the boy knew he was walking right into a verbal trap, and he could say nothing that was plausible and convincing without contradicting what he’d said earlier. Still, Sooman had to admit that there was a lot of potential here. He had run into plenty of troubled adolescents during his time in the underworld, but not many were as sharp in gauging the safety of the situation as this Jungsoo was. He’d make a good asset.

“Are you sure you don’t have anything unpleasant going on at home?”

Jungsoo gasped – well, it was more like he sucked in a breath between his teeth too fast for his lungs to handle. “No. No. Nothing like that.”

The lie was obvious. Not only because the boy’s voice was rushed and slightly panicked, but because of that bruise that splotched over his otherwise pale neck, protrusions that resembled finger marks once again catching Sooman’s eye. It looked exactly like a grown man had grabbed Jungsoo by the neck in some kind of anger.

And Sooman had been watching the boy for some time now. Well, not directly, but ever since that day a few months ago that he’d accidentally come across Jungsoo kneeling in an alleyway and sobbing, his arms wrapped around himself as he rocked back and forth without even paying attention to all the trash and muck surrounding him, he’d ordered a man to gather what information he could about him and bring it back. Nothing too invasive, like breaking into his home; just when he left his house, which was a tiny, rather run-down apartment complex towards the outskirts of the area.

And according to what information he’d gotten, Jungsoo was nowhere near as carefree as a kid his age should be. Apparently, it was rather often that he came running out of the apartment as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Apparently, it was rather often that he skulked in alleyways and streets for hours at an end. Apparently, it was rather often that when he dashed down the street away from his home, a man would lumber out of the apartment and shout threats and abuse in his direction, waving his fists angrily.

It was obvious the kinds of conditions he lived in. And while Sooman didn’t consider himself anyone’s benefactor or SM a charity, he had good reason for wanting Jungsoo to join the ranks. And Jungsoo had pretty good reason for agreeing to.

“Your father?” Sooman asked calmly. He made sure to keep any emotion at all from his tone, to avoid setting off any reaction from the kid.

It seemed to work at least a little. Jungsoo’s body curled, his legs pulling inward towards his chest and his arms wrapping themselves around his shoulders, but otherwise, there was no particular flaring up. “W-what did you say? Have you – have you been watching me?”

“I have,” Sooman admitted. No use denying it. “Your father is disgusting; that’s undeniable. No one should have to live like that.” It wasn’t like his words were entirely untrue, because he did feel genuinely sympathetic for anyone who was faced with abusive parents, but they weren’t words he’d be saying to just anybody. He was saying them to Jungsoo, sympathizing with him, because he wanted to kid to join SM, and playing on his unfortunate situation was probably the best way to convince him to do so.

Jungsoo’s eyes wavered.

“If you want,” continued Sooman, seeing plainly that what he was saying was having the intended effect, “then I can help you.”

The kid wiped at his eyes frantically, as if he could tell he was about to tear up and cry but didn’t want to in front of anyone. It didn’t seem like the immature ego of a teenager wanting to appear touch, but the desperation of an adult who knew any sign of weakness could be preyed on by strangers. “Why should I trust you?” he asked quietly.

“It’s an opportunity.” Jungsoo stared at him in confusion, so Sooman elaborated.

“It’s an opportunity to escape from your father. Do you think you’ll find a better chance than this? Someone offering to help you? If you can’t take this opportunity, do you think you’ll ever find it in yourself to get away from him?”

“But for all I know you’re not even giving me that opportunity,” Jungsoo challenged. He sounded a bit shaky, like he wasn’t used to tiptoeing his way around logic games – which made sense, considering his physically violent father. “You could be planning to just sell me. Or to––” He shuddered, and Sooman didn’t need words to know what possibility the boy was thinking of. It irritated him to even be looked at with the possibility of being trash like that, but it was only expected for a kid in Jungsoo’s situation.

“Do you think that’s what I’m planning to do?” he asked, meeting Jungsoo’s eyes. The adolescent flinched, but held his gaze.

“I – I… don’t know.” Well. If Jungsoo was openly admitting to not knowing something, admitting to an uncertainty, an insecurity, to him, then it was a sign that he was opening up. It was faster than Sooman had expected it to take, but then again, when your father hit you and beat you, maybe you were quick to cling on to other people, even unconsciously.

“Of course you don’t. You’d never know for sure.” Sooman made sure to keep his voice quiet and soothing. “But what do you think?”

Jungsoo hesitated, his gaze flicking over him warily. It must have been a good fifteen seconds before the boy spoke again. “I don’t think that’s what you’re planning to do.”

“If that’s what you think, then trust your instincts,” Sooman advised – sincerely, because that was almost all that he’d been doing for the past decade and a half. Trusting his instincts not to fail him. He wasn’t dead yet, so he must have been doing something right. He knew it was a gigantic leap for Jungsoo to even begin to consciously put any trust in him, but if he wasn’t willing to take risks like this then he would never be able to advance – and that meant he was pretty much worthless.

Jungsoo hesitated again. His eyes wavered as he stared at Sooman, as if he was trying to look into his mind and puzzle out if he was truly being honest, or if he had harmful intentions. He breathed in shakily. His lower lip trembled. His hand reached up to rub subconsciously at the angry purple bruise on his neck – the one that his father had left.

“…How will you help me?”

Pleased, Sooman leaned back a little, the tension of Jungsoo’s imminent decision dissipating. “For starters,” he said, “I’m going to get you away from your father.”

Jungsoo was silent as a statue and even stiller. There was a mix of hope, eagerness, terror, sadness, and resentment in his dark eyes that was, admittedly, heartbreaking. No teenager should have to feel like this about leaving his only remaining family.

“How?” he finally asked. “Who are you, anyway?”

“My name’s Lee Sooman,” Sooman introduced himself. “And for starters, you need to come with me. Don’t worry about your father anymore; I’ll take you to a place where he can never get you.” He offered Jungsoo his hand to help him get to his feet, and, just as he’d expected, the teenager didn’t immediately take it. Instead, he stared at the outstretched limb, uncertainty once again coloring his gaze. Sooman didn’t blame him, but he also didn’t have all the time in the world.

“Trust your instincts, Jungsoo.”

Jungsoo took a deep breath. His lower lip trembled again, and Sooman thought the boy might burst into tears – but Jungsoo’s eyes hardened. He reached up and took the hand.

[randomoranges]

So Totally OP!

Part 12

 “So, co-star, are you ready for the big scene?” She smiled wickedly at me and then she left. Oh help me, God of all beautiful things.

 -

I got to the studio exactly fourteen seconds late and already the director was on my case. This girl needed to chill! She seriously kept forgetting to take her happy pills in the morning. Had she even finished high school? Was she even allowed to be here?

 “Alright people, let’s go! Kimberly, Taro you know where to be. Hurry it up please!” Why did it have to be that the day that we shot the scenes where I could be my regular guy self, Mr. Luke wasn’t there? I wasn’t beyond saying that the director had planned it this way; her and her evil little schemes.

 We made our way to the stage that we were shooting and placed ourselves comfortably on the bed. Kimberly adjusted herself, while I made myself look relaxed. And this was written by a sixteen year old?

 “So tell me John, who showed you the way?” She said, perfectly enunciating her words, right intonation and all.

 I was momentarily distracted by the absurdity of this scene, of my life, of everything, really, that I forgot my line. I had forgotten what came next! This had never happened to me before. I thought that I would be able to save the show by doing a little improvisation. Maybe the director would like it and finally realize just how valuable my talent was to her.

 “The fireflies showed me the way!” I blurted out. The director slapped her hand to her forehead and yelled cut for the eighty-eighth time in two days.

 “What in the name of the egg was that?!”

 I guess she really didn’t like my improvisation much.

 “If you think that what you just said was funny, then you’re in the wrong, my friend. This isn’t high school anymore Mr. Taro. Now, I suggest that you revise your lines before we continue. Thank God this isn’t live.” She huffed and I could see some of the camera operators’ snigger. I thought that by trying to be a comedic relief she would appreciate me more, but apparently, there was absolutely nothing that could be done.

 Kimberly managed to calm her down and we resumed our filming. We finally got over with the dreaded scene thirty-one of page one-hundred and seventy-six. We had to cut it short because the director had some sort of meeting. She left to change and I lazed behind on set. Jake came out and we started talking. After the operation, we had become closer and we could almost be considered friends. Almost.

 “What ever happened to my appendix?” I asked. This question had been bugging me ever since that day.

 “I don’t know, I’m a make-up director slash hairstylist. I have no idea what the doc might have done with it.” He said casually. He really looked bored. This was something that modeling school had taught me. Never look bored. It removes to your charisma.

 “They should have given it to me so I could have sold it. I’m sure it would have been worth a lot on E-Bay. After all, who wouldn’t want a piece of my perfect body?”

 Jake looked incredulous and shook his head, partially amused. “You’re weird, but that’s okay, weird is good.” The both of us were silent for a moment and then we saw the director walking out of her office all decked out in fine clothing. She could have almost passed as a perfect being from heaven, but her shoes didn’t go that well with her suit.

 “Quite a site isn’t she? She doesn’t normally get this dressed up for her meetings. This must be one with the Hollywood Foreign Press or something. You should see her with a dress on, now that’s shiny!” I wondered if Jake didn’t still like her. There was something in the way he spoke about her. Every time he spoke of her, there was this dreamy hidden look on his face. The director, on the other hand, simply waved at us and left. Her mahogany colored suit made her look mature. She could have easily passed for a twenty-six year old and not a sixteen year old. I just stood there for a moment longer staring after her.

 “You like her don’t you Taro?” Jake asked me with a smile. Why would I? What was there about her that could possibly make me attracted to her?

 “Of course not!” I lied. For the first time since I had let the world hear my perfect tenor voice, my acting had failed me. There was nothing about those three words that could sound any faker. Why did God have to punish me for being so beautiful?

 “Of course not, whom am I kidding?” What I liked about Jake was that he didn’t care whether you were lying or not, as long as you lived your life to your fullest and you weren’t getting on his nerves.

 We remained at the studio for a few more hours, with nothing else to do, simply enjoying the lull in the hectic schedule. I was about to consider heading home, when the director returned, with a strange, portly man attached to her arm. I disdained him right away, for some absurd and unknown reason.

 “Taro, just the person I wanted to see, this is Daniel, the new accountant.” The director gave a fake smile and this small fry Daniel just stole the stage. He wasn’t even talented.

 “Taro, you know if you double up on the acting and change from Olay to Dove and reduce your meal times to forty-five minutes instead of ninety, you can save over five-hundred dollars a day. Of course, that money does go to OP but still. Also, if you switch from silk to cotton and take one shower instead of five per day, in three months that’s another eight-hundred dollars! OP would be rich and stay number one on the charts for sure!” He said without pausing once to take a breath.

 I backed up into a wall and glanced at Jake, silently asking him to save me and confirm that he too had just witnessed this atrocity. Jake also wore a traumatized expression. Not only was this man ugly as my grandmother’s wrinkled prunes, but he was too obsessed with money and that was what made him scary. Why had she hired this – abomination?!

PREVIOUS: XI CURRENT: XII NEXT: XIII      

[365days365movies]

March 10, 2021: Ugetsu Monogatari (1953) (Part 2)

Well...looks like the ghost story just started.

NO CASPER YOU CANNOT KEEP ME YOU WEIRD ‘90S GHOST BOY

I remember that movie, I grew up with that movie, and I remember when that movie first debuted on television for the Wonderful World of Disney on ABC, AND IT HAS GOTTEN FAR CREEPER AS AN ADULT

And, uh...speaking of possessive possessors...let’s get back to the movie, shall we? Part One of the Recap is right here!

Recap (Part 2)

As that fuckin’ mask moans in the background, we learn that the ENTIRE FUCKIN’ MANOR was slaughtered by ABSOLUTE LEGEND, NOBUNAGA ODA. Dude is one of the most famous daimyo and Japanese leaders of all time, and was prominent specifically during this period. Damn. That’s like saying your entire family was slaughtered by Abraham Lincoln.

Anyway, he’s moaning because he likes it when his daughter, Wakasa, dances, and is overjoyed by the fact that she and Genjūrō have just gotten married, which my dude Genjūrō is TOTALLY ACCEPTING OF FOR SOME REASON. However, he doesn’t entirely trust the situation, and Wakasa suggests that he thinks that she is a sorceress. A convincing argument, seeing that she commands him to devote his life to her, and dude DOESN’T SAY NO.

After a VERY good shot transition to the next day, the two are having a picnic, and Genjūrō admits that he doesn’t care is she’s a ghost or enchantress (DEFINITELY THE FIRST ONE), and is in love with the exquisite pleasures that she’s been introduced to. The two cavort in the fields in a way that definitely won’t come back to bite Genjūrō right in the ass.

And not just him, because Miyagi and their son are STILL waiting for him to come back, and are hiding in their old village as the soldiers continue to invade and forage for food and wares. An old woman helps them to escape the village, and gives her and her son food in the process. However, they are intercepted by starving soldiers, who steal their food and stab her with a spear in the process. FUCK.

Tōbei's not doing a lot better, as the wannabe samurai finds himself in a battlefield. He watches someone get beheaded by a samurai, whom he himself kills and steals the head from. Turns out that someone was a general, and he takes it to the general of the opposing side. While the general doesn’t believe that he killed the general himself, he’s still rewarded with a horse, man, and armor.

He also gets status, which IMMEDIATELY goes RIGHT to his head. As they go through a village, Tōbei's men convince him to stop at a brothel to celebrate his recent success. He agrees, although he’s eager to share his success with Ohama, who doubted him. Still, at the brothel, he brags to others about his skills and prowess, ALL of which he completely makes up, the great coward and faker that he is.

And its at this brothel that he meets none other than Ohama, who’s been forced to turn to the brothel for work after being disgraced by the other samurai, all because of her husband’s actions. She berates him for her current state, and for his complete selfishness, which he counters with his desire to make her proud. However, she’s been defiled and dishonored, and asks Tōbei if he can find a way to bring back her honor. He pledges that he will. They do love each other, after all.

Meanwhile, a happy Genjūrō makes his way back to the village where he sold his wares. He tries to buy some silks for Wakasa, but is refused when he tells the salesman of the manor he comes from. As he leaves, he’s suddenly approached by a priest (Sugisaku Aoyama), who sees the shadow of death upon him, and urges him to return home immediately. He also reveals that Wakasa is indeed a ghost.

Genjūrō attempts to brush this off, but the priest decides to exorcise the spirit of Wakasa from the mansion to help this man. However, Genjūrō still returns to the manor, the great numpty. Troubled by the priest’s statements, his worry is sensed by Wakasa, who tells him not to leave her side ever again.

He tells her of his wide and child, and asks to be allowed to go home. She doesn’t care, and states that they will go together to her native land. However, when she tries to touch him, she can’t. The priest has done something.

The priest wrote prayers to Buddha on his skin in order to protect him from Wakasa and Ukon. Ukon reveals that Wakasa dies before experiencing love, and the two spirits returned to the mortal world to find that love for her. Ukon in particular is angered by Genjūrō ‘s insistence in leaving and abandoning her in her hour of need, also commanding him to stay by her side forever.

However, Genjūrō panics, and grabs a sword with which to attack the pair and escape. He passes out, and is found by soldiers the next day, who accuse him of stealing the sword, which is apparently sacred. He says that he took it from the manor, but the soldiers respond that the manor’s been burnt down for a while now. And we see the ruins of what was once the manor, as Wakasa’s haunting song is heard in the background.

Spooky. As. FUCK.

Genjūrō, as creeped the fuck out as I am, returns to his little village, destroyed by Shibata’s army. He goes to look for Miyagi and his son, but doesn’t find them in their ransacked home. He leaves the room, we slowly pan back to the door in which he entered...

FUCK ME MAN

So, there is NO GODDAMN WAY that Miyagi and Genichi aren’t DEAD AS SHIT. He apologizes for his great mistake in seeking fortune, and admits that all he ever needed was his family. Miyagi shoves those concerns aside, and pours him some sake and stew. But she seems both relieved and bereaved at his return. And I can only assume that that’s because she knows the truth, and isn’t telling him how hard he fucked up by leaving them. He settles in to bed with his son, and his wife looks on as the fire goes out, and mends Genjūrō’s clothes until the sun comes up. And again, it’s SPOOKY AS FUCK.

That next morning, the Village Chief comes back, and Genjūrō answers the door. His son is still there, to my surprise. However, the Village Chief reveals the truth: Miyagi was indeed killed by the soldiers that day. Genichi mercifully survived, however, and has been living with the Chief since. However, how he knew that Genjūrō had returned was unknown.

As Tōbei and Ohama return home (with Tōbei throwing his armor in the river, and Ohama rightfully berating for his foolishness), Genjūrō repents for his actions, and builds a shrine to his late wife. But Miyagi...Miyagi’s not truly dead. You see, she narrates over Genjūrō’s actions, as he’s learned tehe folly of his ways and greed, and returns to the kind man and caring father who he was before. She watches over them both, and the movie ends as the village rebuilds.

FUCK ME MAN, I AM SPOOKED. And that was Ugetsu Monogatari! See you in the Review!

[drawing-way-outside-the-lines]

Alexander (Alex) Thompson. *Supporting Character. Voice Claim: (Chris Pine) https://youtu.be/pHUPG0I2JSU?t=250 Partner(s): River Parents: Robert Thompson.   Kids: None.     Other family members: His siblings Evan, Rose and Lily And his half siblings River and Jackall. Age: 42 (2020) but looks younger. Birthday : January 27th Height: 192cm Body type: Muscular, not buff, has a very slim waist.     Eye color: Medium brown… chestnut color?  Human, but immortal. About: ~ Outgoing, easygoing, loyal, caring, determined, positive, polite, charismatic, emphatic, responsible, warm, sincere, great sense of humor, reliable, good listener, generous, romantic, down to earth, considerate and calm. ~ Was disowned by his parents as a teen when his mother found out he was gay. Until recently didn’t have any contact with his family, but was reunited with his siblings and dad.   ~ Gay, but admire feminine beauty a like flirting with women. But would probably never go further than that. ~ Has short dark brown hair.     ~ Has very full dark brown hipster beard. ~ Has colored his beard and hair gray before, for a stronger ‘daddy effect’. Considers doing it again. ~ Is a bit of a hipster. ~ Has tattoos on most part of his body. ~ Has stretched earlobes. ~ Has a beautiful home, he loves to decorate with his roomie, Arman.  ~ Actually has a guitar, even if he doesn’t know how to play it, simply because it reminds him of his brother, Evan, whom he missed a lot while they were separated.   ~ Has 3 cats, named Dermot, Hope and Future. ~ His hands often smells like rose hand lotion.  ~ Beside that he smells like various teas or: Tom Ford - Oud Wood, John Varvatos - Dark Rebel Rider, John Varvatos - Vintage, John Varvatos - Dark Rebel, John Varvatos - Oud, John Varvatos - Artisian Black, Yves Saint Laurent - La Nuit De L’Homme. ~ Is a great cook and loves spending time in the kitchen. ~ Loves baking as well. ~ Has a mini… yes the car. ~ Has a black motorbike. ~ Is a big tea and coffee drinker. ~ Used to have a summer fling with Andy a couple years ago, that turned into an Autumn fling, that almost lead into a relationship.  ~ Loves his family specially Evan, River, hipster types of Rock/Folk music, coffee, tea, rainy days, 90’s movies, reading, cooking, red wine, decorating, cuddling, dogs, cats, red bricks, olive oil, fresh basil, bergamot, pepper fruits, salmon, licorice, his beard, bubble baths, lavender, the smell of fresh cut grass, documentaries about planet earth or space, listening to old records, the smell of motor oil, industrial looking lamps, honey and breakfast in bed. ~ His style is definitely Hipster-ish. ~ Is the type of guy you can visit Friday evening, an suddenly without noticing, it’s Sunday night!    Alex’s tag Alex’s house/home Alex’s moodboard Handwriting/ask answer pic:

One Gif to describe him:

One song to describe him: Passenger - Life's For The Living Personal playlist: 1. Paolo Nutini - Candy 2. Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros - Home 3. Mumford And Sons - Wilder Mind 4. Vance Joy - Fire and the Flood 5. The Lumineers - The Ballad Of Cleopatra 6. Chet Faker - No Diggity Live Sessions) 7. The Teskey Brothers - So Caught Up 8. Noah And The Whale - L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N. 9. George Ezra - Listen to the Man 10. The Revivalists - Wish I Knew You 11. Kodaline - High Hopes (Acoustic from Paris) 12. Oh Wonder - Lose It 13. Of Monsters And Men - Little Talks 14. Milky Chance - Blossom 15. Hollow Coves - When We Were Young 16. Jacob Lee - Demons 17. Matthew Mole - Running After You 18. Hozier - Cherry Wine (Unplugged) | Mahogany Session 19. Bon Iver - Skinny Love 20. Gert Taberner - Fallen

[marril96]

The Distance Between Us

Chapter 9: Witch’s Familiar

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: The time for the Halloween dance has come.

Editor: @cherrypierowena

You loved Halloween, you really did, but your idea of it was more sitting in front of the computer as the latest horror movie played on screen than a dance full of people you couldn't stand clad in cheap costumes and getting blackout drunk.

Yet here you were. At school. At seven PM. Dressed up as a cat; furry suit, fuzzy ears, and fluffy tail, all black as night.

You looked ridiculous.

No more ridiculous than the girls dressed as slutty nurses, but still ridiculous.

Your friends begged to differ, but then, they looked no better than you so it wasn't like they had any place to comment.

Sam and Dean had showed up in plaid shirts, worn jeans, and brown boots. Basically their everyday attire, but they claimed to be monster hunters. They carried ridiculous looking plastic knives (which still earned them odd looks from teachers at the entrance, one of whom had demanded to inspect said "weapons" despite their quite obvious fakeness) and had painted on some scars and tattoos on their arms. Dean had given himself a scar over his entire face, stretching from the right side of his forehead to his left cheek. Claimed it made him look more badass. Which was actually, strangely, true.

Castiel was an angel, dressed in all white (including the trench coat). He'd stuck a fluffy halo atop his head, and had on a pair of wings, big and feathery. You were tempted to rip out a feather or two. His glare at having seen right through you stopped you in your tracks.

Meg was clad in black leather from head to toe. Her eyes were full black, courtesy of contacts, and she had on wings that looked identical to Castiel's, only his were white while hers were ink black.

And Crowley…

Crowley had on a suit, one that almost looked tailored specifically to him. A crown was perched on his head, black with blood-red crystals. He wore red contacts, making his eyes look like menacing rubies.

"Lemme guess," you'd said the first thing you saw him. "A demon."

He'd looked at you with such offense, as if you'd just insulted his mother. Throwing a quick glance Meg's way, he'd made a face and told you, "King of Hell."

Because of course he was.

What else would he be?

Stupid you.

You didn't exactly have many ideas for your costume. Dressing up wasn't your thing, especially when it came to school-related events.

Browsing the local costume shop, nothing stood out to you as special, as you. You were there more as a courtesy. You weren't even sure if you would show up to the dance.

Then you remembered Rowena. Remembered her smile, so happy, so bright, as she showed you her dress.

You had to see her in that dress.

You didn't know why. Didn't understand the euphoria that went through you at the image of her clad in it, of the fabric hugging every curve of her body.

That was when it occurred to you that you could be a cat. A black one.

Witch's familiar.

You wondered if she would get the reference. If anyone would, for that matter.

It was silly, really, but oh, well. It was a school dance, not a castle gala. Silliness was basically law.

"Drink?" Crowley asked. He looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then pulled a flask out of his inner pocket and took a big swig.

Whiskey most likely.

You made a face. "No, thanks."

He shrugged. "More for me."

He took another swig. Then another.

Nice.

The dance had just started, and he'd already started working on getting drunk.

"Easy there, your majesty. Leave some for later."

With a sly smirk, he opened up his suit jacket, revealing three more flasks neatly stashed in each pocket. "A king always comes prepared."

Of course he did.

"I'm not driving you home because of your preparations," you threatened.

He held his hands up in a placating manner.

"And I'm not helping you walk. You're not drooling on my shoulder. Again."

One time, a few months ago, was more than enough.

"Thanks for the warning, love, but I can handle my liquor," he said in a modest tone that was faker than his title.

You laughed out loud, right in his face.

"What's up?" Sam asked, breaking through the crowd of costumed bodies with Dean in tow. Both held plastic cups filled to the brim with foamy amber liquid that didn't look like juice.

"Crowley's a drunk," you said. Before the king could utter a response (which earned you a middle finger from him instead), you asked, "Where'd you get that?"

"Some seniors snuck in a six pack," Dean said with a shit-eating grin. He took a sip of his beer, then another before finally downing half a cup.

Beer. One of Dean Winchester's weaknesses, right alongside hot chicks, porn, pie, and Jack Daniel's.

You stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. How did one sneak in a six pack?

You decided you didn't want to know.

They were seniors. It was explanation enough. Just like that time Garth Fitzgerald did something that got the entire school evacuated and guys in hazmat suits called in. How? It didn't matter. All that was known was that whatever he'd done occurred in the chem lab and it was an honest to god accident.

It had happened, and everyone had gotten a day off.

And tonight, everyone who wanted would get to party properly.

Crowley opened up his jacket again, flashing the goodies right in the Winchesters' faces. "Amateurs."

Dean's face lit up. "Crowley, my man!"

Crowley held up a hand. "No."

"Come on."

"You get nothing."

"Don't be a dick."

"I'm proud of the title."

He looked it.

"I'll pay you," Dean said.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "How much?"

The elder Winchester peeked into his wallet. "I got two bucks."

Crowley looked offended. A flicker of amusement flashed over his face. "Generous, but no."

"You're an ass!" Dean whined.

Crowley sighed. "Need I remind you what happened last time?"

Dean, drunk out of his ass, had stolen and then drank his entire stash. And had gotten so sick he'd almost ended up at the ER.

Crowley knew better than to let his guard down around him. Fool him once and all that.

"I was wasted back then," Dean said.

"And you'll be wasted this time. Not on my account." Crowley shooed at him as if he were a pesky stray. "Off you go."

Dean did, in fact, go away, became one with the crowd, but not before holding up a middle finger.

"Charming," Crowley quipped with a smirk.

"You guys should just fuck and get it over with," you teased.

You knew Crowley would happily take that option. He never said anything, but you could tell he was attracted to Dean. And Sam. And Castiel. Maybe even Meg and you.

Crowley was attracted to everyone. Flirted with everyone. And, if given the chance, slept with everyone.

You still loved him to bits, but only as a friend. He was attractive, and funny, and could be sweet when he wanted to, but he was your friend. That was what you loved him as. Nothing more and nothing less.

"I'm in if he's in," Crowley said suggestively.

You laughed. If he were a girl, it most likely would have happened yet.

Sam, through a laugh, said, "I'm gonna go find Eileen. See if she wants to dance."

Eileen Leahy was a cute and sweet Sophomore girl Sam sometimes saw in the library. They would make an adorable couple.

"Leaves just you and me," Crowley said, cocking up a teasing eyebrow. "Up for a dance?"

"I can't dance," you pointed out.

"You can stand and watch me dance."

An offer you couldn't refuse. "Sure."

It wasn't like you had anything better to do.

Grabbing your hand, he dragged you into the crowd. People were drinking. Dancing. Moving and swaying to the rhythm of the loud, deafening music blasting through the speakers. So many different costumes surrounded you; some good, some terrible, but, despite the quality of their attire, everyone seemed to be having an amazing time.

Without warning, Crowley took your hands into his and started dancing. He was a great dancer. A rather sophisticated one. He moved just the right way. No mistakes, no slip ups. Just good, old-fashioned dancing.

What the hell.

If he could do it, if all these other kids could do it, so could you.

Talent didn't matter.

It was all about enjoyment.

You let Crowley spin you around. Let him pull you in and out. You were stiff, more robot than human, but you moved alongside him, copied everything he did to the best of your — rather limited — ability.

No one paid attention.

No one pointed and laughed.

Everyone was lost in their own joy.

"Where did you learn how to dance?" you asked, shouting to be heard over the music.

"Dance school," Crowley said.

Seriously?

He didn't seem like the type.

But then, it was Crowley. Everything was possible.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"You don't look like the type to go to an extra school."

Or school in general.

"Mother signed me up," he said, shrugging. "Quit when I was ten. Seemed like a waste of time."

Now that was more like him.

You chuckled.

"Still got the moves."

"They're great moves," you said.

He spun you around again.

Right into someone's back.

Shit!

"I'm so sorry," you said.

The person you'd crashed into whipped around, pissed to high heavens.

Then your eyes met and all anger vanished in a blink, replaced by surprise. A quite welcome one.

"Y/N?"

"Rowena," you breathed out.

It took everything in you to regain your composure. She was gorgeous. Stunning. Mesmerizing. The sparkly black dress fit her perfectly, hugged her every curve as if molded on her body. Her nails were painted black, and she wore a pointy hat adorned with spider web patterns.

Dear god!

She was the most beautiful witch you'd ever seen.

"I didn't think you'd come," she said, flashing a bright smile.

Neither did you.

"Thought I'd have some fun, after all the math," you said.

She gave a small laugh.

"How's that going for you?"

"Good. When I'm not crashing into people."

"Och, it was nothing."

Right.

That was why she wanted to rip your head off — until she noticed it was you.

Did that mean you weren't on her shit list anymore? That her mean girl persona didn't apply to you?

What a privilege.

Rowena narrowed her eyes at her brother. "Fergus."

"Sister," he retorted in a rather uninterested tone.

Such sibling love.

"It's so nice to see you guys," Lucifer said cheerfully.

He was dressed in all red, with red contacts and horns stuck atop his head.

The devil.

Fitting.

You flinched, having not noticed him. You were too distracted by the beautiful witch to notice the garbage that came with the package.

Rowena may have become nicer to you, but that didn't make her choice of boyfriends any less disgusting.

"The feeling's not mutual," you said, then turned to Crowley. "Come on, I wanna get something to drink."

"You're leaving?" The devil pouted. "What did I do?"

"You exist," you replied.

He dramatically slammed a hand over his heart. "Ouch. That hurt my feelings."

Good, you thought. Fucking awesome!

Rowena gave you a polite smile on your way back. A tad… apologetic.

No.

You were seeing things.

She loved that asshole and, despite the recent change in your relationship, hated you.

And, for some strange reason you couldn't put your finger on, it made your heart feel like it was being picked apart by dull knives.

*****

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[theculturedmarxist]

This book will concern itself least of all with those unrelated psychological researches which are now so often  substituted for social and historical analysis. Foremost in our field of vision will stand the great, moving forces of history,  which are super-personal in character. Monarchy is one of them. But all these forces operate through people. And monarchy is by  its very principle bound up with the personal. This in itself justifies an interest in the personality of that monarch whom the  process of social development brought face to face with a revolution. Moreover, we hope to show in what follows, partially at  least, just where in a personality the strictly personal ends – often much sooner than we think – and how frequently  the “distinguishing traits” of a person are merely individual scratches made by a higher law of development.

Nicholas II inherited from his ancestors not only a giant empire, but also a revolution. And they did not bequeath him one  quality which would have made him capable of governing an empire or even a province or a county. To that historic flood which was  rolling its billows each one closer to the gates of his palace, the last Romanov opposed only a dumb indifference. It seemed as  though between his consciousness and his epoch there stood some transparent but absolutely impenetrable medium.

People surrounding the tzar often recalled after the revolution that in the most tragic moments of his reigns – at the  time of the surrender of Port Arthur and the sinking of the fleet at Tsushima, and ten years later at the time of the retreat of  the Russian troops from Galicia, and then two years later during the days preceding his abdication when all those around him were  depressed, alarmed, shaken – Nicholas alone preserved his tranquillity. He would inquire as usual how many versts he had  covered in his journeys about Russia, would recall episodes of hunting expeditions in the past, anecdotes of official meetings,  would interest himself generally in the little rubbish of the day’s doings, while thunders roared over him and lightnings  flashed. “What is this?” asked one of his attendant generals, “a gigantic, almost unbelievable self-restraint,  the product of breeding, of a belief in the divine predetermination of events? Or is it inadequate consciousness?” The  answer is more than half included in the question. The so-called “breeding” of the tzar, his ability to control  himself in the most extraordinary circumstances, cannot be explained by a mere external training; its essence was an inner  indifference, a poverty of spiritual forces, a weakness of the impulses of the will. That mask of indifference which was called  breeding in certain circles, was a natural part of Nicholas at birth.

The tzar’s diary is the best of all testimony. From day to day and from year to year drags along upon its pages the  depressing record of spiritual emptiness. “Walked long and killed two crows. Drank tea by daylight.” Promenades on  foot, rides in a boat. And then again crows, and again tea. All on the borderline of physiology. Recollections of church  ceremonies are jotted down in the same tone as a drinking party.

In the days preceding the opening of the State Duma, when the whole country was shaking with convulsions, Nicholas wrote:  “April 14. Took a walk in a thin shirt and took up paddling again. Had tea in a balcony. Stana dined and took a ride with  us. Read.” Not a word as to the subject of his reading. Some sentimental English romance? Or a report from the Police  Department? “April 15: Accepted Witte’s resignation. Marie and Dmitri to dinner. Drove them home to the  palace.”

On the day of the decision to dissolve the Duma, when the court as well as the liberal circles were going through a paroxysm  of fright, the tzar wrote in his diary: “July 7. Friday. Very busy morning. Half hour late to breakfast with the officers  ... A storm came up and it was very muggy. We walked together. Received Goremykin. Signed a decree dissolving the Duma! Dined  with Olga and Petia. Read all evening.” An exclamation point after the coming dissolution of the Duma is the highest  expression of his emotions. The deputies of the dispersed Duma summoned the people to refuse to pay taxes. A series of military  uprisings followed: in Sveaborg, Kronstadt, on ships, in army units. The revolutionary terror against high officials was renewed  on an unheard-of scale. The tzar writes: “July 9. Sunday. It has happened! The Duma was closed today. At breakfast after  Mass long faces were noticeable among many ... The weather was fine. On our walk we met Uncle Misha who came over yesterday from  Gatchina. Was quietly busy until dinner and all evening. Went padding in a canoe.” It was in a canoe he went paddling  – that is told. But with what he was busy all evening is not indicated. So it was always.

And further in those same fatal days: “July 14. Got dressed and rode a bicycle to the bathing beach and bathed enjoyably  in the sea.” “July 15. Bathed twice. It was very hot. Only us two at dinner. A storm passed over.” “July  19. Bathed in the morning. Received at the farm. Uncle Vladimir and Chagin lunched with us.” An insurrection and explosions  of dynamite are barely touched upon with a single phrase, “Pretty doings!” – astonishing in its imperturbable  indifference, which never rose to conscious cynicism.

“At 9:30 in the morning we rode out to the Caspian regiment ... walked for a long time. The weather was wonderful.  Bathed in the sea. After tea received Lvov and Guchkov.” Not a word of the fact that this unexpected reception of the two  liberals was brought about by the attempt of Stolypin to include opposition leaders in his ministry. Prince Lvov, the future head  of the Provisional Government, said of that reception at the time: “I expected to see the sovereign stricken with grief,  but instead of that there came out to meet me a jolly sprightly fellow in a raspberry-coloured shirt.” The tzar’s  outlook was not broader than that of a minor police official – with this difference, that the latter would have a better  knowledge of reality and be less burdened with superstitions. The sole paper which Nicholas read for years, and from which he  derived his ideas, was a weekly published on state revenue by Prince Meshchersky, a vile, bribed journalist of the reactionary  bureaucratic clique, despised even in his own circle. The tzar kept his outlook unchanged through two wars and two revolutions.  Between his consciousness and events stood always that impenetrable medium – indifference. Nicholas was called, not without  foundation, a fatalist. It is only necessary to add that his fatalism was the exact opposite of an active belief in his  “star.” Nicholas indeed considered himself unlucky. His fatalism was only a form of passive self-defence against  historic evolution, and went hand in hand with an arbitrariness, trivial in psychological motivation, but monstrous in its  consequences.

“I wish it and therefore it must be —,” writes Count Witte. “That motto appeared in all the activities  of this weak ruler, who only through weakness did all the things which characterised his reign – a wholesale shedding of  more or less innocent blood, for the most part without aim.”

Nicholas is sometimes compared with his half-crazy great-great-grandfather Paul, who was strangled by a camarilla acting in  agreement with his own son, Alexander “the Blessed.” These two Romanovs were actually alike in their distrust of  everybody due to a distrust of themselves, their touchiness as of omnipotent nobodies, their feeling of abnegation, their  consciousness, as you might say, of being crowned pariahs. But Paul was incomparably more colourful; there was an element of  fancy in his rantings, however irresponsible. In his descendant everything was dim; there was not one sharp trait.

Nicholas was not only unstable, but treacherous. Flatterers called him a charmer, bewitcher, because of his gentle way with  the courtiers. But the tzar reserved his special caresses for just those officials whom he had decided to dismiss. Charmed beyond  measure at a reception, the minister would go home and find a letter requesting his resignation. That was a kind of revenge on  the tzar’s part for his own nonentity.

Nicholas recoiled in hostility before everything gifted and significant. He felt at ease only among completely mediocre and  brainless people, saintly fakers, holy men, to whom he did not have to look up. He had his amour propre, indeed it was  rather keen. But it was not active, not possessed of a grain of initiative, enviously defensive. He selected his ministers on a  principle of continual deterioration. Men of brain and character he summoned only in extreme situations when there was no other  way out, just as we call in a surgeon to save our lives. It was so with Witte, and afterwards with Stolypin. The tzar treated  both with ill-concealed hostility. As soon as the crisis had passed, he hastened to part with these counsellors who were too tall  for him. This selection operated so systematically that the president of the last Duma, Rodzianko, on the 7th of January 1917, with the revolution already knocking at the doors, ventured to say to the tzar: “Your  Majesty, there is not one reliable or honest man left around you; all the best men have been removed or have retired. There  remain only those of ill repute.”

All the efforts of the liberal bourgeoisie to find a common language with the court came to nothing. The tireless and noisy  Rodzianko tried to shake up the tzar with his reports, but in vain. The latter gave no answer either to argument or to impudence,  but quietly made ready to dissolve the Duma. Grand Duke Dmitri, a former favourite of the tzar, and future accomplice in the  murder of Rasputin, complained to his colleague, Prince Yussupov, that the tzar at headquarters was becoming every day more  indifferent to everything around him. In Dmitri’s opinion the tzar was being fed some kind of dope which had a benumbing  action upon his spiritual faculties. “Rumours went round,” writes the liberal historian Miliukov, “that this  condition of mental and moral apathy was sustained in the tzar by an increased use of alcohol.” This was all fancy or  exaggeration. The tzar had no need of narcotics: the fatal “dope” was in his blood. Its symptoms merely seemed  especially striking on the background of those great events of war and domestic crisis which led up to the revolution. Rasputin,  who was a psychologist, said briefly of the tzar that he “lacked insides.”

This dim, equable and “well-bred” man was cruel – not with the active cruelty of Ivan the Terrible or of  Peter, in the pursuit of historic aims – What had Nicholas the Second in common with them? – but with the cowardly  cruelty of the late born, frightened at his own doom. At the very dawn of his reign Nicholas praised the Phanagoritsy regiment as  “fine fellows” for shooting down workers. He always “read with satisfaction” how they flogged with whips  the bob-haired girl-students, or cracked the heads of defenceless people during Jewish pogroms. This crowned black sheep  gravitated with all his soul to the very dregs of society, the Black Hundred hooligans. He not only paid them generously from the  state treasury, but loved to chat with them about their exploits, and would pardon them when they accidentally got mixed up in  the murder of an opposition deputy. Witte, who stood at the head of the government during the putting down of the first  revolution, has written in his memoirs: “When news of the useless cruel antics of the chiefs of those detachments reached  the sovereign, they met with his approval, or in any case his defence.” In answer to the demand of the governor-general of  the Baltic States that he stop a certain lieutenant-captain, Richter, who was “executing on his own authority and without  trial non-resistant persons,” the tzar wrote on the report: “Ah, what a fine fellow!” Such encouragements are  innumerable. This “charmer,” without will, without aim, without imagination, was more awful than all the tyrants of  ancient and modern history.

The tzar was mightily under the influence of the tzarina, an influence which increased with the years and the difficulties.  Together they constituted a kind of unit – and that combination shows already to what an extent the personal, under  pressure of circumstances, is supplemented by the group. But first we must speak of the tzarina herself.

Maurice Paléologue, the French ambassador at Petrograd during the war, a refined psychologist for French academicians  and janitresses, offers a meticulously licked portrait of the last tzarina: “Moral restlessness, a chronic sadness,  infinite longing, intermittent ups and downs of strength, anguishing thoughts of the invisible other world, superstitions –  are not all these traits, so clearly apparent in the personality of the empress, the characteristic traits of the Russian  people?” Strange as it may seem, there is in this saccharine lie just a grain of truth. The Russian satirist Saltykov, with  some justification, called the ministers and governors from among the Baltic barons “Germans with a Russian soul.” It  is indubitable that aliens, in no way connected with the people, developed the most pure culture of the “genuine  Russian” administrator.

But why did the people repay with such open hatred a tzarina who, in the words of Paléologue, had so completely  assimilated their soul? The answer is simple. In order to justify her new situation, this German woman adopted with a kind of  cold fury all the traditions and nuances of Russian mediaevalism, the most meagre and crude of all mediaevalisms, in that very  period when the people were making mighty efforts to free themselves from it. This Hessian princess was literally possessed by  the demon of autocracy. Having risen from her rural corner to the heights of Byzantine despotism, she would not for anything take  a step down. In the orthodox religion she found a mysticism and a magic adapted to her new lot. She believed the more inflexibly  in her vocation, the more naked became the foulness of the old régime. With a strong character and a gift for dry and hard  exaltations, the tzarina supplemented the weak-willed tzar, ruling over him.

On March 17, 1916, a year before the revolution, when the tortured country was already writhing in the grip of defeat and  ruin, the tzarina wrote to her husband at military headquarters: “You must not give indulgences, a responsible ministry,  etc. ... or anything that they want. This must be your war and your peace, and the honour yours and our  fatherland’s, and not by any means the Duma’s. They have not the right to say a single word in these matters.”  This was at any rate a thoroughgoing programme. And it was in just this way that she always had the whip hand over the  continually vacillating tzar.

After Nicholas’ departure to the army in the capacity of fictitious commander-in-chief, the tzarina began openly to take  charge of internal affairs. The ministers came to her with reports as to a regent. She entered into a conspiracy with a small  camarilla against the Duma, against the ministers, against the staff-generals, against the whole world – to some extent  indeed against the tzar. On December 6, 1916, the tzarina wrote to the tzar: “... Once you have said that you want to keep  Protopopov, how does he (Premier Trepov) go against you? Bring down your first on the table. Don’t yield. Be the boss. Obey  your firm little wife and our Friend. Believe in us.” Again three days late: “You know you are right. Carry your head  high. Command Trepov to work with him ... Strike your fist on the table.” Those phrases sound as though they were made up,  but they are taken from authentic letters. Besides, you cannot make up things like that.

On December 13 the tzarina suggested to the tzar: “Anything but this responsible ministry about which everybody has gone  crazy. Everything is getting quiet and better, but people want to feel your hand. How long they have been saying to me, for whole  years, the same thing: ’Russia loves to feel the whip.’ That is their nature!” This orthodox Hessian,  with a Windsor upbringing and a Byzantine crown on her head, not only “incarnates” the Russian soul, but also  organically despises it. Their nature demands the whip – writes the Russian tzarina to the Russian tzar about the  Russian people, just two months and a half before the monarchy tips over into the abyss.

In contrast to her force of character, the intellectual force of the tzarina is not higher, but rather lower than her  husband’s. Even more than he, she craves the society of simpletons. The close and long-lasting friendship of the tzar and  tzarina with their lady-in-waiting Vyrubova gives a measure of the spiritual stature of this autocratic pair. Vyrubova has  described herself as a fool, and this is not modesty. Witte, to whom one cannot deny an accurate eye, characterised her as  “a most commonplace, stupid, Petersburg young lady, homely as a bubble in the biscuit dough.” In the society of this  person, with whom elderly officials, ambassadors and financiers obsequiously flirted, and who had just enough brains not to  forget about her own pockets, the tzar and tzarina would pass many hours, consulting her about affairs, corresponding with her  and about her. She was more influential than the State Duma, and even than the ministry.

But Vyrubova herself was only an instrument of “The Friend,” whose authority superseded all three. “... This  is my private opinion,” writes the tzarina to the tzar, “I will find out what our Friend thinks.” The  opinion of the “Friend” is not private, it decides. “... I am firm,” insists the tzarina a few weeks  later, “but listen to me, i.e. this means our Friend, and trust in everything ... I suffer for you as for a gentle  soft-hearted child – who needs guidance, but listens to bad counsellors, while a man sent by God is telling him what he  should do.”

The Friend sent by God was Gregory Rasputin.

“... The prayers and the help of our Friend – then all will be well.”

“If we did not have Him, all would have been over long ago. I am absolutely convinced of that.”

Throughout the whole reign of Nicholas and Alexandra soothsayers and hysterics were imported for the court not only from all  over Russia, but from other countries. Special official purveyors arose, who would gather around the momentary oracle, forming a  powerful Upper Chamber attached to the monarch. There was no lack of bigoted old women with the title of countess, nor of  functionaries weary of doing nothing, nor of financiers who had entire ministries in their hire. With a jealous eye on the  unchartered competition of mesmerists and sorcerers, the high priesthood of the Orthodox Church would hasten to pry their way  into the holy of holies of the intrigue. Witte called this ruling circle, against which he himself twice stubbed his toe,  “the leprous court camarilla.”

The more isolated the dynasty became, and the more unsheltered the autocrat felt, the more he needed some help from the other  world. Certain savages, in order to bring good weather, wave in the air a shingle on a string. The tzar and tzarina used shingles  for the greatest variety of purposes. In the tzar’s train there was a whole chapel full of large and small images, and all  sorts of fetiches, which were brought to bear, first against the Japanese, then against the German artillery.

The level of the court circle really had not changed much from generation to generation. Under Alexander II, called the  “Liberator,” the grand dukes had sincerely believed in house spirits and witches. Under Alexander III it was no  better, only quieter. The “leprous camarilla” had existed always, changed only its personnel and its method. Nicholas  II did not create, but inherited from his ancestors, this court atmosphere of savage mediaevalism. But the country during these  same decades had been changing, its problems growing more complex, its culture rising to a higher level. The court circle was  thus left far behind.

Although the monarchy did under compulsion make concessions to the new forces, nevertheless inwardly it completely failed to  become modernised. On the contrary it withdrew into itself. Its spirit of mediaevalism thickened under the pressure of hostility  and fear, until it acquired the character of a disgusting nightmare overhanging the country.

Towards November 1905 – that is, at the most critical moment of the first revolution – the tzar writes in his  diary: “We got acquainted with a man of God, Gregory, from the Tobolsk province.” That was Rasputin – a  Siberian peasant with a bald scar on his head, the result of a beating for horse-stealing. Put forward at an appropriate moment,  this “Man of God” soon found official helpers – or rather they found him – and thus was formed a new  ruling class which got a firm hold of the tzarina, and through her of the tzar.

From the winter of 1913-14 it was openly said in Petersburg society that all high appointments, posts and contracts depended  upon the Rasputin clique. The “Elder” himself gradually turned into a state institution. He was carefully guarded,  and no less carefully sought after by the competing ministers. Spies of the Police Department kept a diary of his life by hours,  and did not fail to report how on a visit to his home village of Pokrovsky he got into a drunken and bloody fight with his own  father on the street. On the same day that this happened – September 9, 1915 – Rasputin sent two friendly telegrams,  one to Tzarskoe Selo, to the tzarina, the other to headquarters to the tzar. In epic language the police spies registered from  day to day the revels of the Friend. “He returned today 5 o’clock in the morning completely drunk.” “On  the night of the 25-26th the actress V. spent the night with Rasputin.” “He arrived with  Princess D. (the wife of a gentleman of the bedchamber of the Tzar’s court) at the Hotel Astoria.”...And right beside  this: “Came home from Tzarskoe Selo about 11 o’clock in the evening.” “Rasputin came home with Princess  Sh- very drunk and together they went out immediately.” In the morning or evening of the following day a trip to Tzarskoe  Selo. To a sympathetic question from the spy as to why the Elder was thoughtful, the answer came: “Can’t decide  whether to convoke the Duma or not.” And then again: “He came home at 5 in the morning pretty drunk.” Thus for  months and years the melody was played on three keys: “Pretty drunk,” “Very drunk,” and “Completely  drunk.” These communications of state importance were brought together and countersigned by the general of gendarmes,  Gorbachev.

The bloom of Raputin’s influence lasted six years, the last years of the monarchy. “His life in Petrograd,”  says Prince Yussupov, who participated to some extent in that life, and afterward killed Rasputin, “became a continual  revel, the durnken debauch of a galley slave who had come into an unexpected fortune.” “I had at my  disposition,” wrote the president of the Duma, Rodzianko, “a whole mass of letters from mothers whose daughters had  been dishonoured by this insolent rake.” Nevertheless the Petrograd metropolitan, Pitirim, owed his position to Rasputin,  as also the almost illiterate Archbishop Varnava. The Procuror of the Holy Synod, Sabler, was long sustained by Rasputin; and  Premier Kokovtsev was removed at his wish, having refused to receive the “Elder.” Rasputin appointed Stürmer  President of the Council of Ministers, Protopopov Minister of the Interior, the new Procuror of the Synod, Raev, and many others.  The ambassador of the French republic, Paléologue, sought an interview with Rasputin, embraced him and cried,  “Voilà, un véritable illuminé!” hoping in this way to win the heart of the tzarina to the  cause of France. The Jew Simanovich, financial agent of the “Elder,” himself under the eye of the Secret Police as a  nightclub gambler and usurer – introduced into the Ministry of Justice through Rasputin the completely dishonest creature  Dobrovolsky.

“Keep by you the little list,” writes the tzarina to the tzar, in regard to new appointments. “Our friend  has asked that you talk all this over with Protopopov.” Two days later: “Our friend says that Stürmer may remain  a few days longer as President of the Council of Ministers.” And again: “Protopopov venerates our friend and will be  blessed.”

On one of those days when the police spies were counting up the number of bottles and women, the tzarina grieved in a letter  to the tzar: “They accuse Rasputin of kissing women, etc. Read the apostles; they kissed everybody as a form of  greeting.” This reference to the apostles would hardly convince the police spies. In another letter the tzarina goes still  farther. “During vespers I thought so much about our friend,” she writes, “how the Scribes and Pharisees are  persecuting Christ pretending that they are so perfect ... yes, in truth no man is a prophet in his own country.”

The comparison of Rasputin and Christ was customary in that circle, and by no means accidental. The alarm of the royal couple  before the menacing forces of history was too sharp to be satisfied with an impersonal God and the futile shadow of a Biblical  Christ. They needed a second coming of “the Son of Man.” In Rasputin the rejected and agonising monarchy found a  Christ in its own image.

“If there had been no Rasputin,” said Senator Tagantsev, a man of the old régime, “it would have been  necessary to invent one.” There is a good deal more in these words than their author imagined. If by the word  hooliganism we understand the extreme expression of those anti-social parasite elements at the bottom of society, we may  define Rasputinism as a crowned hooliganism at its very top.

[unwcvering]

"Who, are you?" he asked. The armoured woman sighed. "...what an unpleasant face." She raised a finger. Her tanned leather gauntlets seemed designed not to impede the movement of her individual fingers, allowing her to raise them one after another. "Shabby. Fussy. Dark, obstinate. Bad at waking up. Someone who only reads moldy old books. Proud despite his own menial nature. And despite wearing the face of someone whose suffering from their circumstances, you're the one causing all of those circumstances. How about that? It's all true, isn't it?" I was at a loss for words. It was like she was listing off each and every tiny detail about his life. Though she was right about everything, she clicked her tongue as if she was the most troubled by it all. "I don't like it. I don't like it at all. I was sick enough of seeing a face like that on Eumenes, but it's followed me all the way to this era, too?" "Eumenes?" my master repeated the name. No, at this point it would be more accurate to say he had gone stiff. "They said he had served under you for a time, so I wondered what kind of magus you were. But this? No, comparing you to Eumenes doesn't do it justice. Not even a bit. Of course I didn't expect anything like Ammon's priest or Aristotle, but at this rate it would be better to scoop out what little brains you have and feed them to the wolves."

       The amount of parallels within CF is amazing. It is already a given that Waver parallels Sherlock Holmes, but it is clearly no coincidence that Eumenes and Waver look similar. Eumenes served Alexander the Great’s father, then Alexander himself and later his son before he was executed. Eumenes was not favored by other commanders for his successes and not having a Macedonian background. In comparison to Waver, whom I assume is meant to parallel in some way, he is not favored by others in the Clock Tower and other magi for his success as well as not being an actual Lord nor coming from a powerful lineage. 

       Something else to mention is that Hephaestion and Eumenes did not get along at all. If Faker is might to be Hephaestion, though she is not ( if I remember correctly ), it is no wonder that upon seeing Waver she would be angry with him because he looks like Eumenes. She also describes Waver exactly; however, she is describing Eumenes. Waver’s circumstances are of his own doing. He could have gone down a different path, but he intentionally did. He asked Melvin for money to buy the El-Melloi classroom. He stole Kayneth’s relic. He joined the Holy Grail War on his doing with Melvin’s money. Everything that brought him to his present life was his own fault. Similarly, as Faker said, Eumenes had done the same. 

        And finally, something else that’s rather interesting   — “Therefore when Neoptolemus, the commander of the Shield-bearers, after Alexander's death, said that he had followed the king with shield and spear, but Eumenes with pen and paper, the Macedonians laughed him to scorn; they knew that, besides his other honours, Eumenes had been deemed worthy by the king of relationship in marriage.” And as after Iskandar’s death in the Holy Grail War, Waver had as well followed after as a retainer.