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difx-writes · 3 years

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Wildest Dreams - In the Death of the Night

Masterlist

After turning 10 and losing her soulmate, Marinette would imagine how Damian Wayne would be.

Would he be tall or short? Did he have blond hair or brown or did he dyed it? Would he be shy or have a bold personality? Perhaps he was an artistic soul, a poet, a writer? Or would he be a baker like her parents? Why did his last name change?

The wonders and questions took over her mind for days with no end.

On good days, she imagined how he would interact with her friends, how her parents would take him in as their own son, how he would fit into her life.

She liked to talk to him, pretending there, alive, with her. She asked his opinion on what to wear, how she should do her hair, what colors with go well with the design. He was her voice of reason. Talking to "Damian" brought a smile to her face, even when she knew she was deluding herself.

On bad days, she pretended he was right there with her, comforting her, encouraging her, whispering that everything would be alright... Sometimes it worked and she felt better the next days but most times she felt bitter, she felt robbed of a future where he was in her life.

The realization that the person she was supposed to share her soul with was no longer alive, that his death was painful, gruesome, and... lonely... It always ended with her taking a few days to prevent a breakdown...

When she turned 13, Hawkmoth appeared and Marinette became Ladybug, the hero of Paris.

Soon after, Marinette stopped talking with "Damian", she couldn't afford to wonder about him anymore. She couldn't afford the bliss of her own delusions. She couldn't afford to let herself grief and fall pray to Hawkmoth's manipulation.

As she couldn't fail Paris and its citizens, Damian Wayne mostly disappeared from her life.

But there were days when her “friends” demanded a lot from her, akumas were too violent and draining and everything was just too much, those the godawful days.

On godawful days she wished Damian was there to take her away to a place she could feel she belonged. Away from everything to a place she could call a home.

_______

Most nights Damian recalls a voice talking to him during the time he was dead.

His soulmate, he supposed, talked to him regularly, she started her day asking his opinion on her outfit for the day, when at home she would tell him how her day went, what she did with her friends, what she learned in class, etc...

At first, Damian was pretty much annoyed that he couldn't "rest in peace" with all the noise pollution but after a few weeks, he slowly started to tolerate her talking to him.

Unfortunately, he couldn't talk to her nor see her very clearly so it was a pleasant surprise when Marinette would ask his opinion to make a decision, she always picked what he chooses.

Perhaps it was their bond that allowed her to know what he was thinking without actually hearing each other's thoughts. Or maybe they were more in sync with one another. Most likely it was pure luck on her part. (Him being dead is enough proof of how bad his luck was.)

In the months he was dead, Damian learned a grand lot Marinette. He liked how she made him feel he wasn't alone, like how her voice calmed him when he remembered the family he left behind in his death. Marinette was his only lighthouse in the vast void of the afterlife

_______

Impotent, despair, and hopeless.

That's how Damian felt every time Marinette had to relive his death. He hated it so much. She didn't deserve that and it broke his heart every damn time.

Why did he have to die? Why did it have to be in such a painful way? Why did she have to feel it on repeat over and over and over again? Was it a twisted way the universe tried to make them reunited? If they can't find each other in life, then they can be together in death? That isn't right!

But it always hurts more when she wakes up and talks to him. Wondering if he was happy and in peace, in wherever place he ended up.

He was there but she didn't know.

He felt sick.

After being revived, Damian felt an immense sense of loss. Sure, he was kinda happy to reunite with his family and grateful for being alive again, but he missed her.

It was difficult to readjust to being alive again, it was crystal clear that Damian Wayne wasn't okay. What hurts him the most was how her name turned into a scar on his wrist.

During the day paranoia settled in making him always on high alert, lashing out when it got too much for him.

In the night, he couldn't sleep properly as a feeling of unease latched onto his every nerve and when he did sleep, nightmares plagued him.

Damian tried to calm down in various ways, but ultimately it was Marinette's voice that soothed him and lulled him to sleep.

It quickly became a habit to replay their one-sided conversations as he tries to fall asleep.

He went over what Marinette Dupain-Cheng spoke to him time and time again as to engrave her voice in his mind. Unfortunately, her voice was fading away, every time he recalled it, he hear his own voice.

At least some memories remained, which was relieving for Damian, even when important ones like what language she spoke or the name of her school were completely wiped out.

He never told his family his experience while he was dead, he guesses Jason was the most likely to know about it but he never brought it up to anyone, so Damian did the same.

Now he was lying in bed, remembering about the time Marinette tried embroidery for the first time.

She started by searching up what she wanted it to be and after much talking, she chose a Robin, Damian smile at the eagerness he felt for her to chose it. It was a fun day, with her making comments here and there about the work, he wishes he could see it.

A knock woke him up of his thoughts, Alfred emerging from the door.

"Master Damian, I'm here to inform you a guest will be joining us for tomorrow's dinner."

"Whose guest?" He didn't really feel like dealing with new people.

"It's Master Jason's guest."

Damian groans, perhaps he could go visit Kent.

"It would be in your best interest to participate, Master Damian." Alfred gave him a look.

He sighed, definitely can't miss tomorrow or he'll have to face Pennyworth.

So, I've written another chapter while listening to a sad song on repeat :') I know it doesn’t really connect to the last chapter but I wasn’t feeling okay and didn’t know how to continue from where I left off.

I hope y’all enjoyed this and have a nice day!

P.S.: The taglist is temporarily closed as some tags aren't working. Again, I'm very sorry if I missed anyone. If you no longer want to be tagged please hit me up.

Taglist:

@thestressmademedoit @moonlightstar64 @dast218 @moonystars14 @buticaaba @urbanpineapplefarmer @thedragonbug @little-lady-bird @an-actual-changeling @ladybug-182 @ash-amg @g-arya @nnon-it-up @hateswifi @maribat-is-lifeblood @kikooaaaaaa @jessigurl-design @vixen-uchiha @acoursedprophetwithasmothie @snow-leopard-777 @theatreandcomicfreak @zalladane @fusser90 @finallyaniguana @danielslilangel @dreamykitty25 @corabeth11 @ellymae21 @books-and-left-behind-journals @hetalia-lover-is-here @dorkus-minimus @magic-miraculous @waywardpeachgardenshark @darkthunder1589 @jaggedheart11 @daminettes @todaylillypads @schrodingers25 @pheonixashtree @mikantsume @eliza-bich @miraculous-simmer7 @goblinwhoships @fidget-eep @rosalineandrosemary @lunarwolfspn @more-or-less-human-i-guess @aestheticnpoetic @amayakans @abrx2002 @karategirl119 @agentofscifi @flower-and-drawing @itsmeevie01 @suddenly-i-kin-oikawa @ii-fox-demon @thatonecroc @dawnwave16 @bigpicklebananatree @violentbisexualprophecywriter @scribblinggraveyard @heaven428 @toodaloo-kangaroo @ravennightingaleandavatempus @chylou34 @silvergold-swirl @magictragic-world @snowstar1016 @heldtogetherbysafetypins @awkwardoneout @novicevoice @thenillabean @bookishdork13 @laurcad123 @thezestywalru @k-poplunardreams @coloursforyourportrait @fandomsaremylifeline @goddessofthewestwind @captainmac6 @chocolatecatstheron @princessanimeangel11 @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @ur-beautiful-when-u-smile @batlover1303 @softlysobbingpostendgame @justconfusedperiod @clumsy-owl-4178 @bluesimani @iwritelikeimrunningoutoftime @kokotaru @totalyasexual @professionalfangirl1738 @nitholites @zestyzealot @pawsitivelymiraculous @autiegirlshit @raz-b-rose @thanks-captain-obvious @emilytopaz @nightstarblue @2confused-2doanything @niknak-3 @blackroserelina @fortunatelyoptimisticdeer @ira-sairain @pepelachanel @naimena @iloveitwhen @disneyfoxuniverse @ur-average-reader @lylshyt @jerusalemandolives @anonymously-odd @southamericanghotamite @a-star-with-a-human-name @we-want-mini-mini @literallytryingmybestbutok @alenee13 @animegirlweeb @our-preciousss @prudencerika @byronsacademics @ivymala07 @shamefullove @susiej1118 @technicallyburninggarden @sentimentalcrap @ertyzeta @tomanyfandomsonmymind @starmist19 @synnesstra @nokia75 @swiftie-miraculer13 @solideogloria172 @a-door-into-my-mind @road-work-ahead123 @madking-warqueen @caseoftheblues @buginetye @ihavehomeworkbutistillhere @i-wanna-go-to-outerspace @insane-fangirl-of-everything @ultimatetornshipper @chaoticstarworld @adrestar @wolf-for-life @blacktea-ba @pinkk-sheep @autiegirlshit @chocolateherringtacofan @blackroserelina @samopotahto @blur-of-colours @stainedglassm @redbullgivescaswings @khneltea @amigotasbien @sdg-demachera @alyssadeliv @greatcatblaze @raesofmoonlight @galla02006 @sunflowers-and-mooncakes @novaloptr @qualitypeacepainter @solangelo252 @unnamed2357 @thespianlesb @mildlydeadly @yuriyuhitsu @hewantedbeefintheparkinglot @literaryhiraeth @luna025 @henie04 @trashesa @castle-bookworms-world

#daminette #maridami #damian x marinette #marinette x damian #marinette dupain cheng #damian wayne #maribat #ml x dc #soulmate au #angst #in the death of the night

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derangedrhythms · 3 years

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Man, I love this blog...any quotes about wrath and wolves? Please?

Thank you so much. ❤️

That's so lovely to hear, thank you 🖤

On wrath:

"I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other."

— Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, dir. Kenneth Branagh (1994)

"I shall take two huge handfuls of his rustling hair as he lies half dreaming, half waking, and wind them into ropes, very softly, so he will not wake up, and, softly, with hands as gentle as rain, I shall strangle him with them."

— Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories; ‘The Erl-King’

"Grown weary of these sacrilegious thrills / The time will come to tear his breast apart; / My dainty, deadly hands with harpy nails / Can claw their way into his beating heart."

— Charles Baudelaire, Complete Poems; ‘Spleen and Ideal’ from 'Benediction’, tr. Walter Martin

"I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood. I can kill myself or – I know it now – even kill another."

— Sylvia Plath, from 'The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath'

"There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw."

— Madeline Miller, from 'The Song of Achilles'

"Now I will burn you back, I will burn you through,"

— Charlotte Mew, from 'In Nunhead Cemetery', published in 'The New Faber Book of Love Poems', ed. James Fenton

"You have not known horror until I have shown it to you."

— Penny Dreadful, from ‘Resurrection’

"Out of the ash / I rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air."

— Sylvia Plath, Ariel; from ‘Lady Lazarus’

"Aaaagh! This man I hate! / This man who swore eternity in my arms! / Let me live to see him and his bride as broken bodies in the dust of their palace."

— Euripides, from 'Medea', tr. Nicholas Rudall

"Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of your birth."

— Mary Shelley, from 'Frankenstein'

"Give me a drill. I will bore holes in his shoes and spy on him as he walks. Eyes beneath the pavement will be watching him. While he sleeps I will trepan the back of his head and with my fingers pull out his dreams of her."

— Jeanette Winterson, from 'Gut Symmetries'

"Like all good storytellers, Hermes knew to save the best for last. One evening, he told me of a trick Pasiphaë had played upon Minos in the early days of their marriage. Minos used to order any girl he liked to his bedchamber in front of her face. So she cursed him with a spell that turned his seed to snakes and scorpions. Whenever he lay with a woman, they stung her to death from the inside."

— Madeline Miller, from 'Circe'

Also - 'Medusa' and 'Havisham' by Carol Ann Duffy

On wolves:

"There is a vast melancholy in the canticles of the wolves, melancholy as infinite as the forest, endless as these long nights of winter …"

— Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories; from ‘The Company of Wolves’

"I met the wolf alone / And was devoured in peace."

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from 'The True Encounter'

"Fear and flee the wolf; for, worst of all, the wolf may be more than he seems."

— Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories; from ‘The Company of Wolves’

"I look up someone grins / you're a bloody feral wolf-face I like you."

— Alice Notley, Disobedience; from 'I suppose this is all a lefthand path'

"We love the wolf. We love the love of the wolf. We love the fear of the wolf. We’re afraid of the wolf: there is love in our fear. Fear is in love with the wolf."

— Hélène Cixous, Stigmata: Escaping Texts; from ‘Love of the Wolf’, tr. Keith Cohen

"They will be like shadows, they will be like wraiths, grey members of a congregation of nightmare; hark! his long, wavering howl…"

— Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories; from ‘The Company of Wolves’

"They were waiting in a quiet part of the wood for the hunters to appear, when a single wolf passed by their tree. He was the handsomest of his kind, with fine, dark eyes and a pelt the colour of wet slate. He looked up into the tree and addressed the gentleman in a language that sounded like the chatter of water over stones and the sighing of wind amongst bare branches and the crackle of fire consuming dead leaves."

— Susanna Clarke, from ‘Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell’

"The wolf is carnivore incarnate."

— Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories; ‘The Company of Wolves’

"All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel."

— Margaret Atwood, from 'The Blind Assassin'

#compilations #cw suicide #wolf #wrath #long post

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 4 years

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The Sight of You (Spencer Reid x Reader)

Summary: Spencer’s disturbing dreams about his childhood bring him back to Las Vegas to face two of his childhood’s greatest enemies: his estranged father and his ex best friend.

AN: it’s a friends to enemies to lovers fic! Set in the episode “Memoriam” 4x07

Content Warnings: usual Criminal Minds stuff, mentions of child death, childhood trauma, descriptions of a dead body. Let me know if I missed anything!

Despite seeing Spencer around Pre-k, Y/N did not trot over to talk to him with their brightly coloured rucksack swinging vigorously and violently behind them. They walked faster instead once their parents had dropped them off. Spencer did his best to catch up to Y/N but lost them around the corner in the sea of students seeking their next class. He was meant to be one of them. Adjusting his glasses as they slipped down his nose, Spencer noted that he needed a new prescription before entering his own class and preparing to focus on a subject he was already well-versed in.

It was lunch time when Spencer finally found Y/N. They were sitting at the furthest end of the table in the canteen. But Y/N cowered away from him, his shoulders drawn up defensively.

“Are you OK, Y/N?” Spencer asked before getting to what was more significant to him: “Do you know when you will be free to play again?”

The next sentence out of Y/N’s mouth stung like a nettle. They stood up, their face contorted in their fit, and they pushed Spencer hard on the shoulders.

“Go away! I can’t look at you! You make me feel sick, you and your family!” They cried.

They went silent when Spencer was laughed at by those who heard what was said. Just grabbed their lunch and moved away, leaving Spencer spellbound in the middle of the canteen, heartbroken and with a new opening for a potential chess partner. Maybe that man they saw last week at the park would be kind enough to join him again.

But there was no replacement for Y/N, who now never said a word when they caught a glimpse of Spencer being bullied – only dithering about on the spot before fleeing the scene moments before a teacher would show up.

Spencer was hurt; that hurt warped into hatred when he was next out with his mother and father. They were at the shopping mall and had just bought Spencer his new glasses. Going down the escalator, he saw Y/N. They were smiling and skipping between their parents, a new pair of shoes shiny on their feet.

The second they spotted the Reids, Y/N ducked behind their parents. Spencer could still see their face: brow furrowed, eyes squinting, hands shaking now that nothing was holding them. Their parents didn’t seem to notice. They kept talking and walking even as Y/N stopped in time with the Reids stepping off the escalator.

Sudden footsteps running away was what dragged the public’s attention to a suddenly absent child.

“Y/N!” The parents called out as they chased after the four-year-old. They were quick past the Reids, not stopping to say ‘hello’.

Spencer kept his eyes trained after Y/N’s fleeing form, right until his mother’s face came into view. Diana looked saddened; she too was staring after the L/Ns. Turned to his father. William was composed but his eyes were turned down and watering.

For making his parents react like that to their mere presence, Spencer despised Y/N.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

The burning hatred from adolescence staled once Spencer reached adulthood. The protective nature that spawned from it for his mother remained.

Which is why, when Diana Reid casually mentioned Y/N when asked about Riley Jenkins, Spencer froze up.

“You remember Y/N?” He said stiffly.

Diana didn’t notice her son’s change in tone, “Of course, you two were opposites but you got on so well. So sad what happened to them.”

The first guess was that she was referring Y/N’s repeated attempts at running away before Reid cut contact with neighbourhood gossip at age fourteen. He didn’t bother with a second attempt to understand what his mother meant.

“I don’t care about Y/N. I want to know if you remember Riley.”

“And I told you: Riley was a boy you made up.”

“No, Mom, he was a real boy who lived in our neighbourhood, and somebody killed him. And, I don't know, I think-- I think that dad might have had something to do with it.”

“He was real?”

“Yes. And...”

“He was on that little league team, too.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

The whole case was surreal - “case” being a very loose term.

When they got into his office, Spencer thought that perhaps things might simmer down a little. Unfortunately, as soon as his father spoke about their history of similarity in appearance, Spencer’s usual comfort of statistics and facts on the elderly and pets failed to conceal his abandonment issues.

William Reid was clearly affected by Spencer’s accusations, calling the idea of fitting the profile thus being Riley’s killer “absurd”. Furthermore, he was confrontational when asked for access to his files and demanded a warrant. Coupled with Lou Jenkins’ absolute certainty that William was not involved in Riley’s murder and Penelope asking him “you sure about this?” concerning invading the aforementioned files, Spencer was very close to snapping.

“I really wish people would stop asking me that.”

Then there was the envelope posted beneath his motel room door. Suspicious timing aside, there was a brand-new suspect basically handed over on a silver platter. One Gary Michaels whom Spencer couldn’t remember him but he couldn’t be sure that he didn’t know him. Uncertainty being the feeling he hated the most.

This man could fit the profile; his previous of exposing himself to a minor was a precursor to molestation. But that wasn’t what Spencer wanted to hear from the shady file slipped to direct his attention away from William.

Garcia reported back about his father’s drives, “No kiddie porn, no membership to illicit websites, no dubious emails, no chat room history.”

“What about his finances?”

Hotch joined the conversation, “We went back ten years. No questionable transactions that we can find.”

Spencer sighed while Emily decided to crack a joke: “Well, he did buy a ticket to see Celine Dion six months ago, but I think we can overlook that.”

“He’s smart. Is it possible he kept things under the table?” Spencer persisted.

“Well, of course,” Hotch answered, “But from what we can tell, Reid, he doesn’t fit the profile.”

“We can tell you other things about him, if you want to know.”

A peace offering on behalf of Emily. Clearly she had improved after her night out and subsequent hangover. Spencer gave the go-ahead and Emily listed her profile:

“He's a workaholic, he actually logs more hours than we do. He makes decent money, but he doesn't spend a lot of it. He has a modest house. He drives a hybrid. He doesn't travel much. He stays away from the casinos. Um, and according to his veterinary bills, he has a very sick cat.”

“He appears to spend most of his free time alone,” Hotch added, “He goes to the movies a lot, and he reads. And from his collection of first editions, it seems his favourite author is-”

Spencer interrupted his boss, “Isaac Asimov, I remember that one.” He pressed his lips together. They were right; William Reid did not fit the profile.

Garcia piped up once more, “He does have one other major interest. On his home computer, he's archived, like, a ka-jillion things on one common subject.”

“What?”

“You, kiddo. He's got, like, everything that's been published online. Every article you've been quoted in, pieces you've written for behavioural science journals, He even has a copy of your dissertation.”

“He's keeping tabs on you,” Rossi said, That's saying something.”

But Spencer smoothly dismissed this attempt to make excuses for his father, “Yeah, he googled me. That makes up for everything. I'm going to get some air.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

After getting said air, Spencer went to the local bar and began playing an computerised poker game. His paying attention was only to distract himself, clear his head with something he knew he could control. And thankfully, a chance interaction with a lady at the bar spawned the inspiration for a sporadic hypnosis session.

Doctor Jan Mohikian allowed them a session. Reminded of the limitations that a four-year old’s memory could provide, not including the bias he already had as a son and a profiler, Spencer lay on the couch. His feet hung over the end so that his head could be comfortable in a pillow. There was no time for self-consciousness with Rossi in the room observing. He closed his eyes and felt his hand be placed upon Doctor Mohikian’s body.

She spoke low and calmingly, “I want you to hold my wrist in your left hand. And if you should feel any fear, I want you to squeeze, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Go back to the night you were just telling me about. You're at home, in your room. You can't sleep because your parents are arguing.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

His eyes were closed still, but the couch shifted into a bed. His bed. A floor below, the faint shouting between his mother and father was heard. There was someone else there too. A child wailing, and it wasn’t him.

Suddenly his father was at his side, touching his arm, saying, “I know you’re awake. Daddy loves you; you know that?”

Spencer didn’t want to be there, and then it was the following morning.

Putting his glasses, the room fell into focus. His mother was there, she didn’t see him because she was too busy looking out the window. Her body language told him that this was not a meltdown, but what she saw was distressing. She’d been crying. As she walked away into the house, she hid her face as if she knew Spencer was watching and she wanted to hide her reaction from him.

Spencer ran to the window the second Diana had left the room.

His father was in the back garden and burning clothes. A bloody shirt, a tiny cardigan, landed on top of the pile already set alight.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and wake.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

And Spencer was shocked out of the scene, back to the doctor’s couch and gripping her wrist with an iron grip. Rossi was by his side, bringing him back to peace with his voice.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Derek was clearly disturbed that Spencer was very set on his father being a paedophilic murderer as much as he had been that Spencer was taking something that was said after his mother’s fit seriously. He continued however to assist with Rossi in Spencer’s investigation.

As if everything else hadn’t been hard enough, the captain took some time to agree to holding William Reid in custody. Finally, he settled for twenty-four hours. William was as resistant to the questions as he had been upon the initial reunion. All he could say was that he didn’t hurt Riley. Spencer wore him down, getting him to drop the Gary Michaels bomb plus the threat that he “didn’t want to go down that road”.

Garcia’s search of Gary Michaels’ DNA on the databases brought to light that their suspect was dead. Buried across state lines, beat over the head with a pipe or bat, and the body was discovered in 2001.

“Maybe it wasn’t Riley’s blood on the clothes he was burning.” Derek was about to hang up when Garcia began to speak again, a new discovery ready for her team.

“Also, Todd found something in your father’s finances. There was a standing order for a therapist, specifically a child therapist from 1985 to 1995. I thought it was for Spencer, but William left when you were twelve, and these sessions continue irregularly after he left you!”

“Who was the patient?”

“One Y/N L/N. Local to North Vegas, born 1980 to Shelly and Finley L/N.”

Both Rossi and Derek looked away from the phone to Spencer and he knew. He knew he’d have to face another villain from the past – like a knight in one of Y/N’s stories.

“Still alive?”

“Yep, already pulling up an address. There’s a lot of short leases attached to this name. Lucky for you, they keep going back to live with their parents.”

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure that he could handle two bitter reunions in one day.

“We’ll send off the fingerprint while we visit Y/N. They could have been a potential victim of Michaels before he died. They might know something.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

It was a normal home in a normal neighbourhood. Spencer had never visited Y/N’s house. Their play-dates were always at the park.

“Hello, Mr L/N,” held up their badges, “I’m Agent Derek Morgan, this is Agent David Rossi and Doctor Spencer Reid. May we come in and ask you some questions?”

“Sure. My wife is uh out at work at the moment,” Finley opened the door wider and stepped aside for the trio to enter, “I’m the house husband as it were.”

Looking about the kitchen, Spencer spied several photos of an adult Y/N but very few of them as a toddler and even less as a teenager.

“You have a child, Mr L/N?” Rossi asked.

“All grown up now, Y/N,” Finley smiled with a nod. Then he squinted at Spencer, “You’re not related to William Reid by chance, are you?”

Masking his bitterness, Spencer said shortly, “He’s my father.”

Finley seemed in awe at the prospect, so Derek redirected the conversation back to the matter at hand, “What was Y/N like as a child?”

Nodding still, like a bobble head, Finley looked weary at the notion, “Troubled. They were very young when they withdrew into themselves. Used to run away from home a lot. I don’t know what happened, but Y/N never told us.” He then jumped to protect his child’s reputation at present, “They’re doing better now, went to therapy and they’re doing very well for themselves.”

“I’m glad to hear.” Rossi replied.

Finley continued his defence of Y/N, “They’re a published author, they write fantasy things for kids and young adults. We’re very proud of them.”

“Did Y/N know Riley Jenkins when they were a child?”

“Riley Jenkins, that’s Lou’s kid who died, right?” Finley sought confirmation and, when he had it, he spoke, “Not personally. I think they might have played at the park once or twice. Before he died, Y/N would play with anyone. But you… you know that.” And Finley gestured to Spencer, much to his disgust.

“Is Y/N in the area?” Spencer asked briskly.

“Well, they’re due for a visit in a few hours. They went on holiday.”

“They still live with you?”

“A month ago, they got a new flat in the city. But they’ve got their own room here, for whenever they need it.”

“May we see it?”

The wallpaper was barely visible beneath exam revision notes, posters of Fresh sheets on the bed and the clear space on the floor were the only tidy things about the place. It was a haven of organised clutter.

A chess set caught Spencer’s eye. It sat upon the windowsill, recently dusted. The pieces were not that of a classic set; each was painted prettily but with enough error to indicate it was a personal touch.

“You and Y/N were close then?” Derek was holding up a photo album. Upon inspection, the photograph the page was open on was of Spencer and Y/N dressed up for Halloween as Doctor Frankenstein and the Monster respectively – accurate to the book of course.

“Yeah, ‘were’,” Spencer turned back to the chess set. He didn’t bother to ask when his friends had figured out he knew Y/N.

Rossi decided to further test the waters, “You think that Y/N could have killed Riley?”

“Of course not. A four-year-old couldn’t kidnap, tie up, rape, and kill a boy their own age. No violent history that indicates they would ever do something like this. Do I think that Y/N knows something about what happened and my father is trying to keep them quiet? Yes.”

Rossi moved beside Spencer, picking up the knight. Except it wasn’t a knight. It was a wizard of some kind in purple robes.

“We’ll stay up here for a bit then go down once Y/N’s inside and settled,” He gestured with the knight to the window. Spencer blanched as he spied a cab at the end of the driveway. The trunk was open and someone was retrieving a suitcase from within.

Y/N appeared around the corner, waving off the cab and turning to the house. Mr L/N appeared on the drive and they met in the middle for a hug. Over Mr L/N’s shoulder, Spencer could see that Y/N had grown into their chubby childhood features. They looked genuinely happy.

He would have to go through with it, but he didn’t have to like it. And he couldn’t go hide in the bathroom like with his father.

The trio plodded down the stairs when the sound of the front door closing was replaced with a joyous gathering in the kitchen. It all changed when Y/N went to take off their jacket and caught sight of the three FBI agents standing in the doorway. Taking out his badge, Rossi led the way.

“Hello, Y/N, I’m Agent David Rossi, this is Agent Derek Morgan, and Doctor Spencer Reid. We’re looking into the death of Riley Jenkins, and we were hoping to ask you some questions.”

To the naked eye, very little changed about Y/N’s appearance. To the three profilers, there was a visceral reaction: Y/N’s right hand started trembling, the hard swallow, the dropping of their gaze from Spencer to the floor.

“OK,” They said, a great deal quieter than they had been with their father.

Rossi sat next to Y/N at the dinner table. Derek was beside Rossi; Spencer stayed standing. Mr L/N stayed in the kitchen, at Y/N’s request.

“Can you tell us what you remember about Riley?” Rossi began.

“Not very much, I don’t really remember much about school.”

“Oh, you don’t?” Spencer blurted, “Well, I do.”

Derek glanced back at him with a look that just screamed “shut the hell up”. It seemed to cut down Y/N’s resolve, their jaw quivering.

“Sorry, can you give me a moment?” They stood up quick, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor as they walked just as fast to the kitchen. Through the open door, Rossi, Derek, and Spencer watched Y/N grab a glass from the open dishwasher. The water from the tap hit the bottom of the glass harsh, crashing out like a wave of the ocean hitting a cliff. Y/N didn’t seem to care. Their hand dripped water onto the surface as they chugged back some of the drink before returning to the table with a topped-up glass.

“Are you alright?” Rossi inquired, leaning closer to Y/N.

They answered wearily, “Fine, just feeling woozy.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yeah, you’re a writer too. My mom reads your stuff before bed.”

“Bit of an odd nightcap,” Rossi said with a little chuckle.

Y/N shared that smile for the briefest of moments, replying “You’re telling me.”

From their pocket, they pulled out some painkillers, popping them back with a slug of water then speaking again. “I remember Riley was smaller than me. Still figuring out coordination, but he liked to play chase. I know he was killed; I didn’t find out how until I looked into it last year.”

“Why did you look into it?” Rossi gently probed.

Y/N rubbed two fingers back and forth across their head as they spoke, “I was back here, I felt sick so I went for a walk in the park, and I just remembered him tripping over while trying to tag me. No one ever told me what happened, just that he had to go away. I wanted to know what happened to him.”

“Are you sick often?” Derek asked suddenly, his voice soft to match Rossi. Spencer grimaced at the treatment Y/N was receiving but said nothing.

“Headaches and stomach aches mostly.”

“You get them whenever you come home?”

“I do. Figured I was allergic to something but never figured out what.”

That would have to be a very quick response, like a dog allergy. And coincidental, seeing as the symptoms didn’t start until they saw Spencer.

“Y/N?” called their father, “Can you come here a moment please?”

“May I?”

“Of course,” said Derek and Y/N was out of the room. Derek pivoted in his chair to include Spencer in his theory, “I think they know something, but they don’t know they know it. I think they repressed this memory like you did, Spencer. We should take him to the therapist, see if we can jog his memory.”

“You can’t be serious,” Spencer covered his face with his hands, dragging them down with irritation.

Derek was persistent though, “Spencer, like it or not, Y/N’s linked to this investigation. Put aside your differences for a moment, please.”

Spencer all but squawked, “Put aside my differences?”

“You have brought a lot of bias to this case. Let us at least pursue this lead.”

“Sorry,” Y/N interrupted Spencer’s retort, sitting back at the table, “He needed someone to get unhook the loft door. Mom usually does it.”

“That’s alright.” Rossi waved a hand dismissively. Once Y/N accepted that, he moved in with Derek’s suggestion, “You know, some people have strong physical reactions to memories, trauma. Maybe you’re not getting sick. You’re rejecting something.”

“Rejecting?” repeated Y/N. There was no doubt in their voice, more cautious curiosity.

Derek nodded, “A memory, repressing it, and your body has linked the physical responses to your home. We think it has something to do with this case, and we’d like to see if we can retrieve any memories you might have. Would you be alright to come with us?”

“Yeah,” said Y/N, though they didn’t sound too certain, “Yeah sure.”

The resigned, too tired look on their face, and Spencer felt a tug in his chest. A longing to see Y/N smile like they had when they first entered the house. He’d rather hate someone who was happy than someone who suffered the same as him.

Leaving the house, Spencer took a deep breath of fresh air.

“Spencer?”

He ignored Y/N’s voice for a moment, but he couldn’t disregard Y/N standing in front of him and speaking again, “Spencer, can we talk please?”

“I’m busy,” He said, already walking off as he pretended to call someone, “Hey Garcia.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

“Hold onto my hand, use it as an anchor, and squeeze when you feel fear.” Doctor Mohikian accepted Y/N’s hand on her wrist and their silence nod as they lay back on the same couch Spencer had been just hours before.

“I want you to think back to your childhood, back to when you were five. You’re at the park, your parents are on a bench watching nearby to keep you safe. What do you see?”

“Spencer Reid.”

Derek and Rossi glanced at Spencer, who did not react. They kept quiet so that Y/N could immerse themselves in the hypnosis.

“What’s he doing?” Doctor Mohikian continued.

“Teaching me chess.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Sat on opposite sides of the table, Spencer and Y/N’s eyes were glued to the chess pieces that were neatly organised between them. Spencer was thinking strategy. He could not say the same for his companion Y/N. They reached a hand out and hovered over the pieces before finally selecting their last knight.

Their tongue clicked as Y/N trotted the piece on the spot.

“What’s this one again?”

“The knight,” Spencer recited, “It moves two spaces up, down, left or right, and another step perpendicular to the first direction.”

“Brave creatures riding into battle,” Y/N narrated before continuing their clip-clopping to its new position, “Pawns in the game of war.”

Spencer didn’t understand how they were coming up with this whilst playing. Well, actually, he did. Because Y/N was clearly not playing to win. They were playing for the best possible story.

“Where do you think this story will end?” Y/N asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying,” said Y/N, pushing back the sleeves of their white cardigan, “Come on, you can tell me, with your magic powers.”

“It’s not magic. It’s logic.”

“That’s magic to me,”

Narrowing his eyes, Spencer decided that he should give his friend the information they sought: “I see checkmate in fifteen moves.”

“See? Magic! The gift of sight!” crowed Y/N, clapping their hands together. The cardigan sleeves fell back in place as they did so. Spencer felt his cheeks heat up; he dropped his head so he could smile in privacy while Y/N began to decide their next move.

“How’s your mommy today?”

Shrugging, Spencer said, “Better than normal. But that means a bad day is around the corner.”

Y/N nodded solemnly. ��Do you want another ice cream? I got more birthday money.”

“No thank you.” Spencer moved the piece but was immediately intercepted by Y/N, “You’re getting better.”

“Fank you.”

“You’ll have to wait longer to beat me though.” And he snatched Y/N’s knight away, just as planned and much to Y/N’s dismay.

A new voice from their left spoke, “Hey you’re pretty good.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Y/N’s grip tightened on Doctor Mohikian’s wrist, “Someone’s with us.”

“Who do you see?” Doctor Mohikian asked patiently.

“A man. He’s asking us if he can watch us play, listen to the story.”

“Do you want him to stay?”

“No,” Y/N flinched, “But Spencer keeps talking to him. The man won’t go away.”

“It’s OK, it’s OK, you’re safe, Y/N.”

Y/N flinched again, this time letting out a whimper, “He’s on the floor.”

“Spencer is?”

“No, the man.”

“What’s he doing on the floor?”

“He’s,” Y/N began panting, their face tensing and body jerking, “I can’t get to him. There’s glass in the way and the ground is shaking.”

“Y/N.”

“I can’t look, I’ll be sick! Whenever I see them, sick.”

“OK, you’re going to wake up in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!”

Their eyes snapped open with the click of the fingers and Y/N leapt out of Doctor Mohikian’s couch. Their head aimed over the bin by the door and they retched. Nothing came up but their stomach continued to squeeze up

Spencer fidgeted in his seat, trying his best not to look at Y/N. The choice words of the session, three in particular, wrapped around his head.

“Floor”.

Y/N had seen Gary Michaels inside, somewhere that wasn’t the park.

“Glass”.

A window, Y/N was watching what Gary Michaels was doing.

“Sick”.

“Go away! I can’t look at you! You make me feel sick, you and your family!”

“Them”.

It wasn’t just Michaels in the room alone. They had been a witness to his murder.

Derek’s movement to help Y/N took Spencer out of his analysis. Sweaty, Y/N was led back to the couch, the bin between their legs, head lolling forward. Spencer tried to move beside them for questioning, but Y/N winced and began heaving again. He felt that ache in his chest again. He was causing this and nothing he could do would change that. Not until they both knew what happened to Riley and Y/N got help through it.

“What did you see, Y/N?” Derek asked as he replaced Spencer’s spot beside them.

With watering eyes, Y/N looked at Spencer, “The man we played with, he was on the floor. His head – thank you.” They accepted the water from Doctor Mohikian, gulping some back, “It was smashed in.”

The three agents left the room, Doctor Mohikian following after Y/N left to get some air.

“It’s logical to assume that Y/N tied that sickness, that repulsion because of what they thought they saw your mother be involved with, to you and your family,” Doctor Mohikian evaluated.

Interrupting again, Spencer stammered his way through his analysis, “That’s why they avoided me. They associated me with being ill. It’s probably also why they ran away so much; they had to get away from this horrible feeling they had associated with their home.”

Doctor Mohikian shook her head, “We won’t be able to use this in court, I told you when we started.”

Derek’s phone started to ring. As he answered, Spencer somehow managed to slip away for long enough to find Y/N. They were leaning against the ramp’s railing in front of the practice, their body lifting and slumping with each deep breath they took. Against his better judgement, he moved toward them.

“Y/N? Can I have your number?”

The breathing slowed again.

“I need it to call you with an update on the situation as soon as we get one.”

Without looking up, Y/N pulled out their phone and handed it over to Spencer. He punched his number in a new contact, using this time to gather the courage to maybe say something else. The hurt and pain went beyond him now. Y/N was suffering and had been much longer than he had.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Spencer said quietly, hoping that his didn’t add to the illness, “I hope you feel better soon.”

Their head still down, Y/N croaked, “You too, Spencer.”

“Spencer, get over here! We got a match on a print on Michaels’ body!”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

“What makes you think Gary Michaels killed your boy?”

“He admitted it,” Lou Jenkins said, as monotonous as he had been for the last fifteen minutes of the interrogation.

Derek’s quickfire was on Jenkins instantly, “You beat a guy with a baseball bat, he's going to admit to a lot of things. How do you know he was the right guy?”

“I know. He approached another kid in the neighbourhood.”

“And how do you know that?

“I was told by a concerned party.”

“Who? Another parent?”

Jenkins leant back in his chair, “That's all I'm going to say on the subject.”

“Who was it?” Spencer suddenly spoke up.

Caught off guard at his interjection, Jenkins awkwardly parroted himself, “I told you that's all I'm going to say on the sub—"

Reid slammed his hands on the table, getting right up in Lou’s face, “Who was it?”

The door opened, Detective Hyde appeared, “Agent Reid?”

“Do not interfere with this interrogation, detective,” shouted Spencer, “This is not your case anymore!”

Once again, he was cut off. This time, by the arrival of his own mother, Diana, and her admission of guilt: “Spencer, it was me”.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Of all the things this case had brought him, Spencer least expected to be sitting in a room with his mother and father together for the first time in years. To have Diana explain to him how she was involved in a child’s murder was also up there with the unthinkable.

But he stayed quiet and listened to her confession.

The reveal that she had seen Gary Michaels playing chess with him and Y/N, that she and got a feeling that something was wrong before anything had even happened, opened the story. Lou Jenkins’ involvement was next on the menu. Two days after the chess game, he drove Diana to Michaels’ house, disclosed his history of child abuse, and demanded she leave while he went into the house.

Upon reaching the point where she entered the house, Diana struggled with her words. William reached over and took her hand.

She described seeing Lou with the bat, standing over the body, slipping in the pool of blood, finding Y/N standing in the window and their face, their little face as innocent as the white cardigan that covered their shoulders and absorbed the blood from Diana’s hands as she shook their shoulders.

“And the rest... It's all dark after that.”

William continued for her. Diana came home and brought Y/N with her. Eventually he came to understand what had happened and decided that nobody could ever know.

“You were burning her bloody clothes,” Spencer concluded.

His father nodded, “But the knowing, you can't burn that away. It changes everything.”

“You paid for Y/N to go to therapy.”

William didn’t seem surprised that Spencer knew this, going straight into explaining: “They went into a dissociative fugue state after seeing what Lou had done. When Diana brought them home, they were just stiff. I asked them for their home number, to call their parents, but they started screaming and throwing up. We had to take them to the police station.” He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, “They needed help, but their parents couldn’t afford it. And they didn’t know what had happened. I couldn’t drag another person into this, Spencer.”

“Is this why you left?”

“I tried to keep us together, Spencer. I swear to you, but the weight of that knowledge, it was too much.”

“You could have come back. Could have started over.”

“I didn't know how to take care of you anymore. When I lost that confidence, there was no going back. What's done is done.”

“At least now you know the truth,” Diana made an effort to smile at her son

Choking on his words and the overwhelming remorse he felt, Spencer refused to look at his parents any longer, “I was wrong about everything. I'm sorry.”

And William said something that Spencer had been waiting for, for a long time, “I am, too, Spencer.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

All of this was repeated when Spencer walked with Y/N through their old park the following day. Filling the final gaps in the memory would hopefully bring some respite to them both. Or at least maybe something to start the recovery process, easing Y/N’s sickness and Spencer’s pain.

“I’m sorry for my behaviour during this case,” Spencer sniffed, “When you said we made you sick, back when we were four, I thought you had seen my mom during one of her episodes and thought she was a freak, like everyone else.”

That stopped Y/N in their tracks, their hands coming up to cover their mouth, their eyes misty, “Oh Spencer, I’m sorry too, I’m so, so sorry I caused you so much pain.”

Spencer’s hands rushed up as if to create belated damage control, “It’s ok! I hurt you too. I made you sick.”

“That wasn’t your fault though.”

“It wasn’t yours either. We were kids.”

Almost pedantic, stropping, like a child again, Y/N moaned, “It’s all been such a waste. We could have been friends all this time!”

“We can be friends now,” Spencer pushed his hands down into his pockets to stop them flailing about anymore. His sentence was phrased more like a question.

One that Y/N gladly answered, “I would like really that.”

Sitting in the reply for a moment, Spencer followed up on his concerns, “How are you feeling? I mean, are you feeling sick again?”

“A bit, but I can handle it.”

Spencer could not see any changes in their behaviour from the day before. So obviously they were lying about that. But he didn’t protest. The lie meant Y/N wanted to stay with him, which was good - Spencer wanted that too.

They kept walking, only in silence for half a minute before Spencer broke it again, “I read your books last night.”

“Yeah?”

“‘The Siege of the Lost Faiths’ in Rogue’s Mask, that was our first game of chess.”

“It had by far the best narrative,” Y/N dragged their shoe a little on the grass before coming to a stop, “Do you still play?”

“All the time.”

They nodded over to where the old chess tables still stood, “Fancy a game before you go?”

Spencer grinned, “Just promise that this is the only setting where we’ll be on conflicting sides from now on.”

“Promise.”

Brushing the debris from the table, they both took their places opposite each other. From Y/N’s bag was revealed a box, spilling their painted chess pieces across the board. Remembering how they had stood in Y/N’s room, Spencer helped to set up the match. They took their seats opposite one another. Y/N was the green side, Spencer the purple.

Spencer moved first. After a second’s deliberation, Y/n moved their pawn.

“Isn’t there a story with this one?” Spencer said, an implicated teasing in his tone despite his shyness.

With an equally bashful eye roll, Y/N started their new story, “First begins the battle with the royals on both sides sending intrepid messengers to meet and pass along their deeds.”

Spencer took Y/N’s pawn. As he lifted their piece away, he spoke quietly, “One not as intrepid as the other.”

A gasp dropped from Y/N’s smile. He had never joined in the narrative telling before, always too taken up in the match to invest in whatever story they spun.

“He’s not a coward,” They said, still smiling, much to Spencer’s delight, “Prisoner’s dilemma, he just couldn’t trust the other with his life.”

“Did they know each other before this battle?”

“Yes,” Y/N moved a knight across, stealing Spencer’s pawn, “They were brothers who once shared a crib and now they share a grave.”

Throughout the game, Y/N continued the story with Spencer asking questions just to hear them talk more. The maturity of the stories had grown just as Y/N’s voice had. They knuckled their eyes a few times, but they didn’t complain about the headache.

“I know what endings you like,” Spencer moved his rook, “Checkmate in five.”

Y/N didn’t seem to mind that little dig, “This’ll have to be a short story instead then.”

Spencer’s next sentence got away from him, trailing off the closer he got to the end of it, “You could write an anthology series, if we see each other again and play more games.”

Where Spencer’s voice disappeared, Y/N’s returned with invigoration, “That’s not a half bad idea, Spencer.”

The checkmate never came. Y/N diverted the ending into a draw.

“A peace treaty has been forged by the survivors, because too many lives have been lost to justify this violence anymore. If only they realised sooner that no blood had to be shed for peace to rule the lands.” And they smiled at Spencer, clearly chuffed as they leaned back in their chair, “Bit of an upgrade from the horse noises, I’ll say.”

Spencer rotated the purple knight – the illusionist – between his thumb and forefinger, “I liked the horse noises.”

“You should have said during the match! I’d recreate them, for you.”

One by one, the pieces were placed back into their box until the last piece remained in Spencer’s palm: the knight or Soren the Illusionist, distractions and deceptions but he loved the tricks that delighted most of all. Just like Spencer with his magic tricks but a little to the left. The character was always one of Y/N’s favourites. Some solace away from the pain of thinking of who he was based on.

Y/N pushed Spencer’s hand away, closes his fist around it, “Keep him. He was made with you in mind anyway.”

The information sank in and Spencer’s nose wrinkled with the little smile on his face as he cupped the little Illusionist, “I’m Soren?”

Nodding, Y/N confirmed, “You’re Soren.”

“But what about your set though?”

“I can always make and paint another knight,” and Y/N tilted the piece upside down in Spencer’s hand, revealing the signature on the underside, “You and him are the originals, it’s only fair you stay together.”

In a moment of pure instinct and nostalgia, Spencer clicked his tongue as he twisted Soren in time with the noise. Y/N let out a burst of laughter that dragged the air out of Spencer’s chest.

“Hey, do you wanna get dinner tonight?” He said, running out of breath very quickly as a result.

It had a similar effect on Y/N, “I thought you – don’t you have to get back to Virginia?”

“I have time for dinner. For you.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

The bookstore was packed but the breath of the patrons was held as one. All eyes were watching the mini stage where a crouching figure lifted their head up slowly. A jump as the tension broke with the figure leaping up to their feet with a bang.

Y/N pushed up the brim of their cap. Snatching a deep green hoodie from the purple trunk – silver constellations painted on the sides – they swung it over their back before picking up the page where they had left off.

“Nasima looked up at Mason and said, ‘Well that was just unnecessary.’”

A burst of laughter shot through the pre-teens in the front row, spreading to the adolescents sitting further back who had grown up with the author’s other works, finally reaching the adults at the back where Spencer was fiddling with his cane. He adjusted the sleeve of his costume absentmindedly. He was just like everyone else in the room: captivated by how Y/N was so immersed in their reading.

They had just mimed kicking down a door, plus sound effects from their mouth. Swapping back and forth between the two conflicting characters arguing with one another, changing between the hoodie and the cap with every other line of dialogue and taking both off for the role of the narrator, it was certainly a workout.

An exaggerated breath was drawn into Y/N’s lungs, flopping over in a melodramatic state, which caused another laugh in the audience.

Spencer’s nose scrunched up as he grinned. He knew this was part of the scene; he’d seen Y/N rehearse this story in their sitting room. It was so much better to share this with an audience, for their reactions to fuel Y/N’s energy.

Y/N finished the short story A Battle of Bent Truths with a flourish, leaving the rest of the anthology for their audience to read in their own time. The kids were up on their feet first. Some of them were jumping up and down as they applauded with the rest of the shop. Y/N gave a big grin as they bowed, sweeping their cap off for extra drama.

There was a book signing and a photographer that followed, and Spencer waited patiently at the end of the queue, thankful that the store allowed him to bring a chair along with him. He was happy to entertain his godson and friends with a few tricks to pass the time.

“Another one please!” Henry jumped up and down when Spencer revealed his card.

A minor commotion arose by the photographer’s backdrop. There was a teenager was crying; she was clutching her copy of Untold Tales of Human Nature. Y/N was holding their shoulders, rubbing gently and speaking softly. Only half paying attention to his next trick, Spencer kept an eye on Y/N as they hugged the teenager, looking near tears themselves.

“Spencer?” J.J tapped him on the shoulder and Spencer realised that Henry was looking a little mad to have lost his godfather’s attention so easily.

“Sorry, Henry, can you pick another card please?”

When they reached the front of the queue, JJ went up first and took Henry and his pals up to see Y/N. They instantly recognised JJ and welcomed her with a tight hug. Henry was delighted to see his favourite babysitter and show them off to his school friends, boasting that they had read to him before today.

“They read me bits for bedtime, Mommy!”

“I know!” JJ tickled his cheek, “I read them to you too.”

“Who do you like better?”

“Mommy,”

Y/N gasped, dropping to their knees which made Spencer wince, “Henry, you wound me!”

Rossi approach next, knowing that once Spencer got to Y/N, they would not be left alone.

“You really know how to captivate an audience,” He kissed them on both cheeks, “Though don’t take offence if I don’t use the same tricks at my readings.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it! Thank you for coming.”

Y/N then caught Spencer’s eye and began meandering over to him with a smile they were desperately trying to stifle. Spencer rose from his chair, meeting Y/N in the middle.

“Hi, Spencer.”

With his free arm, Spencer flaunted his cloak, “Who is Spencer? I’m Soren the Illusionist!”

Giggles from his godson, his godson’s gang, his co-workers and friends, they almost caused Y/N to lose their composure. They held on just long enough to continue the banter.

“Oh, forgive me, you look so much like my boyfriend.”

“Hmmm, he must be very handsome,”

And Y/N burst into peals of laughter, waving their hands about, “OK, stop, stop, stop, I can’t.”

“Hey!” Spencer pretended to take offence, pouting as Y/N brought him into a hug.

“Don’t worry,” They kissed his cheek between giggles, “You are so very handsome.”

“To think you were once sick at the sight of me.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #my writing #r: gender neutral #wc: 5k+

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olderthannetfic · 4 years

Note

Hey, sorry to ask this, but a few days ago I saw a post/discussion about the history of original work on ao3 (i.e. how and when it was allowed). I thought it was in my likes, but it's not, and I thought you had reblogged it recently, but I didn't find it. I was wondering if you have seen this discussion around? Or where I can find more about it? This specific post talked abt how who defended original work on ao3 were not the BNFs, if that helps.

That was me running my mouth in the reblogs of something or other. It’s just the one comment.

But what’s that you say? Some tl;dr about a pet topic? Don’t mind if I do! ;) (To be honest, most of this debate happened years ago, and a lot of the long meta was by me back then too, so…)

Okay, so, the situation with Original Works is actually super interesting and a microcosm of early years OTW wank.

This is going to be even more tl;dr than my usual. To try to summarize very briefly:

There were two big cultural factions. One thought “original” was the opposite of “fan”. That one was in charge of OTW. It was hard to get voices from the other side into the debate because they already felt excluded from OTW.

This divide broke down more or less into Ye Olde Slash Fandom on the “it’s the opposite” side and anime fandom on the “WTF?” side. Americans on one side and a lot of non-US, non-English language fandom on the other.

I. Media Fandom, Anime Fandom, and Early OTW

I went to that first fundraising party that astolat threw in New York City back in… god… 2007? 2008? I wasn’t on the Board or any official position until the committees got started later, but I was around right from the very beginning.

Whether you’re looking at volunteers or at people who commented on astolat’s original post, there were always a variety of fans from a variety of fannish backgrounds. People aren’t absolutely in one camp or another, and fannish interests change over time. If you go dig through Dreamwidth posts to find who was actually participating in this debate at the time, half of them are probably in the other camp now.

If you think like that sounds like a preamble to me making a bunch of offensively sweeping generalizations and divvying fans up into little groups, you’d be right! Haha.

I.a. Ye Olde Media Fandom

There are a lot of camps of people who like fanfic. One of the biggest divisions has been Ye Olde Media Fandom vs. anime fandom. Astolat’s social circle–my LJ social circle–was filled with people with decades of fannish experience and a deep knowledge of the Media Fandom side of things.

Those fandom history treatises that start with K/S zines in Star Trek fandom in the 70s and move on through the mainstream buddy cops like Starsky & Hutch to the more niche, sff buddy cops like Fraser and Ray or Jim and Blair are talking about Media Fandom. I try to always capitalize it because the name is lulzy and bizarre to me unless it’s a proper noun for a specific historical thing. It was coined as a rude term for “mass media” fandom aka dumb people who like, ughhhh, Star Trek, ughhh, instead of books. This is a very ancient slapfight from the type of fandom you find at Worldcon, often called “SF fandom” or plain “fandom”.

(Yes, this leads to mega confusion on the part of some old dudes when they find Fanlore and fail to understand that “fandom” there refers to what these people would call “Media Fandom”. They think only they get the unmarked form. But I digress…)

Media Fandom is a specific flavor of fandom. It’s where the slash zines were. It’s where the fans of live action US TV shows were. It’s the history that acafans have laid out well and that tends to get used to defend the idea of a female subculture writing transgressive and transformative fanfic. On the video side, Media Fandom is where Kandy Fong invented vidding by making Star Trek slideshows.

(Kandy’s still around, BTW. She’s usually at Escapade in L.A. Ask her to tell you about the dancing penises sketch in person. She’s hilarious.)

Astolat and friends had been going to slash cons for years. They founded Vividcon. And Yuletide. That meant that when astolat said “Hey kids, let’s put on a show!” we all jumped to help. This is a lady who gets things done.

From a Worldcon perspective, or even from an older Media Fandom perspective, this group was comparatively young, hip, and welcoming. Their fandom interests were comparatively broad. Just look at Yuletide!

In fact, yes, let us look at Yuletide… [ominous music]

I.b. Yuletide sucks at anime

From the very first year (2003), Yuletide mods have asked for help with anime fandoms, been confused about anime fandoms, or made bad judgment calls about anime fandoms. They’ve fucked up on Superhero comics and plenty of other things over the years, but anime has been the most consistent (well, and JRPGs, but there’s so much overlap in those fic fandoms).

There was already bad feeling about this. There were years of bad feeling about this.

I.c. Where are the historians?

Academic study of fanficcy things pretty much got started with Textual Poachers and Enterprising Women. Other acafans who are well known to LJ and later Tumblr are people like Francesca Coppa who wrote a very nice summary of the history of Media Fandom. These are not the only academics who exist, these academics themselves have written about many other things, and by now, OTW’s own journal has covered a lot of other territory, but to this day I see complaints on Tumblr that “acafans” only care about K/S and oldschool slash fandom.

There were years of bad feeling about this as well.

I.d. What kind of fan was I?

Now, by the time OTW got started, I’d moseyed over to not only a lot of live action US TV but a lot of old-as-fuck US TV that is squarely in the Media Fandom camp. But once upon a time, I was a weeaboo hanging out with my weeaboo friends in college. I learned Japanese (sort of). I moved to Japan. Livin’ the weeaboo dream!

More importantly, I used to be a member of a lot of anime mailing lists back in the Yahoo Groups days. I didn’t realize what a cultural gap that would cause until the original works issue came up on AO3.

I.e. Anime Fandom, German-language Fandom, Original M/M

Once upon a time–namely in that Yahoo Groups era–there was an archive called Boys in Chains. It was where you found The Good Stuff™. Heavy kink and power exchange galore! It was extremely well known in the parts of fandom I was in, even if you weren’t on the associated mailing list. It contained lots of fic, but it also had lots of original work.

Around that same era, I was on a critique list called Crimson Ink, which was mixed fic and original. The “original slash” and “original yaoi” crowds mixed freely and were in fanfic spaces. Remember, this is like 2003. You’re never going to get your gay fantasy novel published in English in the US. A couple of fangirl presses started around then, but they died an ignominious death after their first print run.

Fanfiction.net used to allow original work before it spun that off into FictionPress. We forget this today, but if you were an early FFN person, the separation wasn’t so great either.

Meanwhile, German-language fandom was hanging out on sites like Animexx.de, a big-ass fic archive that prominently mentions also including original work. I have the impression that Spanish-language fandom was similar too.

Shousetsu Bang*Bang was founded in 2005. It was a webzine for original m/m, but it was entirely populated by fanfic fandom types.

In all of those kinds of spaces, there was a lot of “original” work that was kind of slash or BL-ish and seen as fannish if it was posted in the fannish space. These weren’t anime-only spaces. They were multifandom spaces where it was seen as obvious and normal that a couple of huge fandoms like Harry Potter would dominate but that everything else big would naturally be anime.

While fans from every background are everywhere, I found that the concentration of EFL fans living in Continental Europe, South America, and Asia was much higher in this kind of space, even the exclusively English language part of it, than in my US TV fandoms.

II. AO3 Early Adopters

AO3 went into closed beta in 2009. In 2010, it was open to the general public (albeit with the invitation queue it still has). But not everyone was interested yet. Just like fandom is loath to leave the dying, shambling mess of Tumblr, fandom was loath to leave dwindling LJ/DW circles or was happy enough on Fanfiction.net. I used to see a lot of posts like “Why are you guys trying to STEAL fanfic from the original! FFN is enough!”

I literally could not give away the invitations I had. No one wanted them.

So who was on AO3? Obviously enough, it was all of us who built it and our friends. So that means a bunch of oldschool Livejournal slashers coming from fandoms like Due South or Stargate Atlantis.

The queue was open. Anyone could make an account. Everyone was welcome. In theory…

But more and more, there started to be these posts about how “AO3 Hates Anime Fandom” and “FFN is for anime. AO3 is for Western fandoms.” and “If you guys actually wanted anime fandom on there, you’d invite us better and make us more welcome.”

At the time, I found these posts obnoxious. People aren’t purely in one sort of fandom or the other. No one was stopping anime fandom from making accounts. No one was banning anime fandom. If there wasn’t much from old fandoms, that was because old fandoms seldom move.

Things began to change. Trolls on FFN forced the Twilight porn writers out, creating enough fuss and brouhaha to mobilize people who would rather have stayed put. AO3 got big enough that randos found it by accident. Original work started to pop up, posted by people who’d never looked at the rules and had no idea it was not allowed.

III. History of AO3’s Policy

I had argued for allowing “original work” during the initial discussions about the ToS. On one side of this issue was me. On the other, everyone else on the committee.

I was overruled.

Open Door started importing old archives to save them. Boys in Chains was hugely important to fandom history from my point of view. It was slated to be imported… maybe. Except that Boys in Chains is half original. AO3 was happy to grandfather in those stories, but the final archive owner felt, quite rightly, that it would be unfair to tell half of the authors they were welcome in the new space while spitting on the other half.

I was pissed. I had been pissed since being overruled the first time. To me, the fact that it should be allowed was so blatantly obvious that it was hard to even explain why.

(To be honest, this difficulty in explaining why and the even greater difficulty in figuring out the source of that difficulty is what held the discussion back for so long. When every assumption on either side is completely opposite, it’s hard to communicate.)

I felt betrayed. It would be like if you helped build something, and everyone was suddenly like “Well, obviously, we can’t allow m/m. It’s not normal fanfic.”

So we discussed it again and, again, it was me vs. literally everyone else. And still the “AO3 is only for Western slash fandom” bitching rose in volume and more and more people complained of feeling excluded from the new fandom hub. Finally, the committee agreed to open the issue up for public comment and get some more input. I was a fool and neither wrote nor proofread the post. It went out phrasing the question as allowing “non fannish” work or something of that sort.

I was furious. The entire point of the whole debate was that I saw some original work, the original work that belongs on AO3, as inherently fannish. And now this had been presented to the AO3 audience as something completely different. Think pieces were popping up in the journals of everyone I knew about diluting AO3’s mission and how we needed to save AO3 from encroachment. Public opinion was very negative. That’s both because of how the post was phrased and because OTW die hards at the time were mostly from the same fannish background. This tidal wave of negativity meant that there was virtually no chance of changing this poisonous rule. And if the rule didn’t change, the people who wanted the rule change were never going to show up to explain why it mattered.

If you’ve been reading my tumblr, I think you can guess what happened next.

I posted a long post to my Dreamwidth. It was a masterwork of passive aggression. In it, I wrung my hands about how simply tragic it would be if AO3 had to delete all of the original work… like anthropomorfic.

Now, I think anthropomorfic counts as fanfic as much as anything else, but I also knew that it fails most rigorous “based on a canon” type definitions of fic and, more importantly, it’s a favorite Yuletide fandom of many of the people on the side that wanted to ban original work.

That’s a nice fandom of yours. It would be a pity if something happened to it.

Yup. Passive aggressive blackmail. Go me. Suddenly, there was a lot of awkward backtracking and confused running in circles in various journals. The committee agreed to table the idea for a while but not rule out the idea of allowing original works in the future. We agreed to halt all deletions of original work. If a fan posted it, the Abuse Committee (which I was also head of at the time) would not delete that work even though it was technically against the rules.

Time passed. The people on the negative side got tired. I wanted off that committee and had wanted off for ages, but I was damned if I was going to leave before ramming through this piece of policy. Grudgematch till I die! (Look, I never said I wasn’t a wanker.)

After a while, some other fans came forward with more types of “original work” as evidence that it should be allowed. These were from parts of fandom none of us on the committee knew a damn thing about.

This new evidence combined with the gradual accretion of original stuff on AO3 without the sky falling eventually led us to quietly rule Original Work a valid fandom. There was never even a big announcement post. I slipped a word to the Boys in Chains mod myself.

IV. What Were They So Afraid Of Anyway?

So why were people so resistant? Seems like a dick move, right?

Not exactly.

I mean, I was enraged and waged a one-woman war to change the rules, but the other side wasn’t nuts. The objections were usually the following:

I just don’t get why it would be allowed. It never was in my fannish spaces.

Most of our members don’t want this.

Most of the examples of things that ought to be included are m/m. We are privileging m/m if we allow it, and AO3 already has a m/m-centric reputation that can feel exclusionary to some fans.

AO3 is a young, shaky platform that can barely handle the load and content we already have. If we open to original work, we’ll be opening the floodgates. The volume of posting will be so high, it will drown out the fic we’re actually here to protect.

Protecting stuff that doesn’t need protection because it’s not an IP issue would dilute OTW’s mission.

If we allow it, idiots will try to turn AO3 into advertising space, posting only the first chapter and a link to where you can pay to read the rest.

If we add another category of text before we add fan art, that’s a slap in the face of the fan artists we are already failing.

These arguments all make perfect sense in context.

Obvously, the issue with the first two is that different fannish communities have different norms. I knew that a very large community disagreed with the then current AO3 policy, but since so few of them were around to comment, it seemed like a tiny fringe minority.

The m/m thing is… complex. M/M content with zero IP issues is at risk. It is always at risk in a way that even f/f is not (though f/f is also always at risk). Asking for m/m to be exactly equivalent to f/f or m/f in numbers, tropes, whatever is ignoring the historical realities. In our current moment of queer activism in the West, we treat all types of queerness as part of one community with one set of goals, but once you get to culture and art or even more specific activism, this forced homogenization is neither useful nor healthy.

OTOH, AO3 really did have PR problems related to the perception that we gave m/m fandom the kid glove treatment. That objection wasn’t coming from nowhere.

AO3 was shaky. It was tiny when I first brought up this argument. Hell, it wasn’t even in closed beta the first time we discussed this. Part of what made the quiet rules change possible was AO3 organically getting much bigger and OTW having to buy many more servers for unrelated reasons.

The “floodgates” thing was put to rest by tacitly allowing original work before the rules change. We had a period to study how fans actually behaved, and as I predicted, only a small amount of original work got posted. It was indeed mostly things like original BL-ish stories or original work that had been part of a mixed original/fic fest, exchange, zine, etc. Currently, the “Original Work” fandom on AO3 only has 76,348 works. That’s pretty big compared to individual fandoms but tiny compared to AO3’s current size.

The commercial argument was spurious because commercial spam had been against the rules from the very beginning. OH THE IRONY that nowadays AO3 has all these idiots trying to post the first chapter of their fanfic and then direct you to where you can buy the rest.

AO3 has plenty of fanfic of public domain works. One of the problems with gatekeeping original work is that any way you try to distinguish it (not based on a specific canon, not an IP issue, etc.) will apply to some set of obviously allowable fandoms.

As for fan art… OTW has failed fan artists. They needed protection as much as or even more than fic writers. Just look at Tumblr! If we had succeeded at making DeviantArt but allowing boners, fan art fandom could have been safe all these years. Or when Tumblr inevitably shat the bed, we could have scooped up all those people instead of them scattering to twitter and god knows where.

OTW has failed vidders too, at least in terms of preservation. I know I’m not the only one who thinks this. Other major people from like the first Board and shit have discussed this with me offline. Doing some kind of vidding project, possibly outside of OTW is on a lot of our to-do lists. But at least one of OTW’s biggest victories has been that copyright exemption. OTW has demonstrably done really positive things for vidders that other organizations and sites have not. As a vidder, I never expected to see good hosting for the actual video files, and I’m quite content.

But fan artists… yeah. That argument makes sense at least from a place of frustration.

BTW, for the love of god, if you’re a n00b to OTW stuff, please do not reblog this post excitedly telling me that hosting fan art is on OTW’s road map, so yay, good news. Someone always does that, and it’s so irritating. I haven’t been involved in OTW in years, but I used to be, and I know what is on the roadmap. The couple of you who do heavy lifting on sysadmin and coding and policy things are welcome to weigh in as usual. I know none of us like that we can’t host fan art. It’s not what we intended.

Nonetheless, I found this argument to be the perfect being the enemy of the good. If we can save more text now without losing much of anything, we should do it. The fact that we’re fucking up on the fan art front is not a reason to spread the misery around.

V. Is “Original” the Opposite of “Fanfic”?

Okay, so that tl;dr above is why “BNFs” were on one side and “nobodies” were on the other. BNFs from one cultural background founded OTW. BNFs from the other cultural background weren’t even aware that the debate was going on.

But what was the underlying philosophical problem in even having the conversation?

It took me a long time, but I finally worked it out: We had two completely different ways of categorizing writing, and they were so baked into how we phrased questions that everything ended up being unanswerable to the other side. Here is what I came up with:

Schema 1

Fanfic - based on someone else’s IP

Original Work - the opposite

Schema 2

Non-Fannish Work - School essays, stories you are writing to try to sell to a mainstream publisher

Fannish Work Type 1 - based on other people’s characters directly (i.e. fanfic) Type 2 - based on tropes or whatever (“original slash” and the like)

Now, in the current moment when half of Tumblr just got into Chinese webnovels and the m/m ebook industry is thriving in English, original, tropey, BL-ish work is no longer different from “things I am trying to sell”. But this is how the divide was circa 2005 on fannish websites, and it’s the divide that was driving this internal OTW debate.

VI. Let’s Summarize the Camps One More Time

So, again, the debate makes perfect sense if you understand who was involved.

On the mainstream “But that’s not fanfic? I’m confused?” side:

Big US TV fandoms in English

Fandom historians of K/S–>buddy cop slash–>SGA, etc.

Americans

On the other side:

Anime fandom

“Original slash” fandom that had already been chased off of everywhere

People upset that AO3 wasn’t farther on translating the interface and supporting non-English language fandom.

People upset about US-centrism in fandom

Yes, I am very white, very American, and by now very into old buddy cop shows, but this was basically how the breakdown worked. It meant that something that looked like a minor quibble to one side was really, really not.

#fandom history #fandom meta #original work #cowboyformitski

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ladykailolu · 1 year

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I love how when I get into something new so intensely, my brain makes new content without my say-so in the form of dreams. It’s like I’m not only enjoying new content in the style of anime but I’m IN the anime.

That dream I talked about also featured pictures of Neil Marshall flashing before my eyes, as if I was Jake and Neil was tryna communicate to him from the afterlife. Then is was Jake traveling through the desert, finding the temple, and setting sail to get stronger.

#lady k says things #neil marshall #jake marshall #ace attorney #dream journal #lady k's dream journal

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hip-hip-she-gayyy · 3 years

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Answer all of them ;D

You asked for it :P

soft asks: 1. cherry - what is your sexuality? Lesbian! 2. lollipop - favorite makeup products? I don't really wear makeup, but when I do it's mostly just fun shit like eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, and/or lipstick. 3. daydreams - if you could be anything or anyone, who would you be? @delicateladybluebird's wife :P 4. october - what month were you born in? February! 5. caress - do you like to snuggle? Yes! 6. ivory - describe your pajamas? Pink hammered satin shorts/cami set 7. golden - favorite stationary product? I love a good pen 8. freckles - most-worn article of clothing? black work pants 9. twilight - best friend? My buddy, Derrik <3 10. silk - do you like k-pop? I don't really get into it 11. poppy - favorite pastel color? yellow 12. dimples - most attractive features of a person’s face? eyes and freckles 13. sunkissed - autumn or spring? spring! I love blooming things 14. buttery - favorite snack? @delicateladybluebird, but also cheese sticks lol 15. whisper - how much sleep do you get? Usually around 8 hours 16. pencil - do you own a journal? I have some old ones, but I don't really journal much anymore. 17. cupcake - are you a good cook? I like to think I'm pretty good-- I don't get a lot of practice these days, though. 18. honey - favorite term of endearment? Unironically, "my lady" 19. clouds - describe one of your favorite dreams? I don't really have any recurring ones that aren't some form of tech week stress nightmare 20. velvet - who was your first crush? Sarah Michelle Gellar in Buffy 21. paper - favorite children’s book? I was obsessed with reading as a kid, so I can't really narrow it down. I do have a soft spot for reading Amelia Bedelia to kids. 22. peaches - do you have a skincare routine? When I actually follow it: I use a gentle face wash, toner, a gentle moisturizer, and undereye lotion. In the winter I use a heavier moisturizer. 23. mochi - favorite studio ghibli film? Spirited Away!! 24. backyard - did you ever have an imaginary friend? Oh, yeah, a ton. Were they ever consistent? No, not at all. 25. strawberry - favorite fruit? It's either lemons or pomegranates 26. kiss - have you ever kissed a friend?, Yup! First girl I ever kissed was one of my best friends in elementary school. 27. nightlight - do you read before bed? I fucking wish T_T 28. shampoo - favorite scent? Probably coconut right now 29. skin - what distant relative are you closest to? My cool second cousin! 30. aphrodite - favorite actress/actor? Idk probably Kristen Stewart? 31. cuddles - do you have any pets? Yes! Too many cats lol 32. lace - if you own any dresses, which is your favorite? Ooooh, tough one. Either my burnt orange velvet wrap dress OR my gold square neck dress that reminds me of Belle 33. sheets - sanrio or san-x characters? Sanrio, but also I really love Rilakkuma 34. cream - frozen yogurt flavor? I usually go for cheesecake-y flavors.

35. watermelon - do films ever make you cry? Yup! I'm a bit of a crybaby lol 36. sapphos - favorite poet? I'm a basic bitch, Emily Dickens 37. plush - how many stuffed animals do you still own? Uhhhh, 5 axolotls, 1 mini german shepherd my roommate in college gave me, a giant rainbow caterpillar, and I think that's it? 38. roses - what flower do you find most beautiful? Sunflowers! Peonies are a pretty close second, though 39. sweetheart - favorite mug/cup? I have two disney princess mugs a friend gave me for Christmas back in high school. We don't talk anymore and I'm not like the biggest disney fan, but I like having them and thinking of her when I use them. 40. sunset - what are your pronouns? She/her!

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biboocat · 3 years

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“I demand jokes.” Nancy Mitford from Reading for Pleasure

Here’s an ongoing list of hilarious & amusing things that I’ve read:

Jeeves & Wooster and Blandings Castle stories by Wodehouse

May We Borrow Your Husband? (short story) by Graham Greene

Our Man in Havana by Graham Greene

Travels with My Aunt by Graham Greene

Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis

Corruption (short story) by Penelope Lively

The Colonel’s Lady (short story) by W. Somerset Maugham

Romance in the Roaring Forties (short story) by Damon Runyon

The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate and various other works of fiction and nonfiction by Nancy Mitford

Diary of a Provincial Lady by EM Delafield

CivilWarLand in Bad Decline (short story) by George Saunders

Unstuck by John Updike (short story)

Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons are two amusing memoirs of domestic life by Shirley Jackson

Rumpole stories by John Mortimer

Clinging to the Wreckage by John Mortimer (memoir)

Paradise Postponed by John Mortimer

Summer of a Dormouse (memoir) by John Mortimer

Memento Mori by Muriel Spark

Scoop by Evelyn Waugh (a farcical satire of the world of journalism)

The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde

Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome

Old Filth by Jane Gardam

Emma by Jane Austen

Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell

Mr. Harrison’s Confessions by Elizabeth Gaskell (with the exception of a few serious and sad episodes among the townspeople, Mr. Harrison’s own story is laugh out loud comical).

Dream Street - Stories of Damon Runyon; some in this collection are very funny.

Norwood by Charles Portis

The Dog of the South by Charles Portis. This is the funniest book I’ve ever read!

#nancy mitford #humor #funny stories

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miguelmarias · 3 years

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TOP 2020

25/12/2020

A) Great movies made since 2015 seen for the first time in 2020:

Buoyancy(Freedom;Rodd Rathjen, 2019)

Les choses qu’on dit, les choses qu’on fait(Emmanuel Mouret, 2020)

L’Île au trésor(Guillaume Brac, 2018)

Le Sel des larmes(Philippe Garrel, 2019/20)

Ghawre Bairey Aaj(Home and the World;Aparna Sen, 2019)

Undine(Christian Petzold, 2020)

Happī awā(Happy Hour;Hamaguchi Ryūsuke, 2015)

Netemo Sametemo(Asako I & II;Hamaguchi Ryūsuke, 2018)

Adolescentes(Sébastien Lifshitz, 2013-9/20)

Family Romance, LLC.(Werner Herzog, 2019)

Demain et tous les autres jours(Noémie Lvovsky, 2017)

Gamak Ghar(Achal Mishra, 2019)

Lunana:A Yak in the Classroom(Pawo Choyning Dorji, 2019)

Semina il vento(Sow the Wind;Danilo Caputo, 2020)

Objector(Molly Stuart, 2019)

La France contre les robots(Jean-Marie Straub, 2020)

Paris Calligrammes(Ulrike Ottinger, 2019/20)

Un film dramatique(Éric Baudelaire, 2019)

B) Great movies made before 2015 seen for the first time in 2020:

Là-Haut, un Roi au-dessus des nuages(Pierre Schoendoerffer, 2003)

Pangarap ng Puso(Demons/Whispers of the Demon/Hope of the Heart;Mario O’Hara, 2000)

Les Films rêvés(Eric Pauwels, 2009)

La vida en rojo(Andrés Linares, 2007/8)

Come Next Spring(R.G. Springsteen, 1955/6)

Song of Surrender(Mitchell Leisen, 1948/9)

Adventure in Manhattan(Edward Ludwig, 1936)

Strannaia zhenshchina(A Strange Woman;Iuli Raízman, 1978)

Chastnaia zhízn(Private Life;Iuli Raízman, 1982)

Málva(Vladimir Braun, 1956/7)

Zhila-byla devochka(Once There Was a Girl;Viktor Eisimont, 1944)

The Unknown Man(Richard Thorpe, 1951)

Aisai Monogatari(Story of a Beloved Wife;Shindō Kaneto, 1951)

Practically Yours(Mitchell Leisen, 1944)

A Summer Storm(Robert Wise, 1999/2000)

Lettre d’un cinéaste à sa fille(Eric Pauwels, 2000)

Sombra verde(Untouched;Roberto Gavaldón, 1954)

Fantasma d’amore(Dino Risi, 1981)

Adieu, Mascotte(Das Modell vom Montparnasse;Wilhelm Thiele, 1929)

Mori no kajiya(The Blacksmith of the Forest;Shimizu Hiroshi, 1928/9;fragment)

Zwischen Gestern und Morgen(Between Yesterday and Tomorrow;Harald Braun, 1947)

Last Holiday(Henry Cass, 1950)

Dialogue d’ombres(Danièle Huillet & Jean-Marie Straub, 1954-2013)

Out-Takes from the Life of a Happy Man(Jonas Mekas, 2012)

Nice Time(Claude Goretta & Alain Tanner, 1957)

Aloma of the South Seas(Alfred Santell, 1941)

A Feather in Her Hat(Alfred Santell, 1935)

La Danseuse Orchidée(Léonce Perret, 1928)

Underground(Vincent Sherman, 1941)

Time Out(in Twilight Zone-The Movie)(John Landis, 1983)

Lackawanna Blues(George C. Wolfe, 2005)

Janie(Michael Curtiz, 1944)

Dernier Amour(Léonce Perret, 2016)

Jeunes Filles en détresse(Georg Wilhelm Pabst, 1939)

Kisapmata(Blink of an Eye;Mike De Leon, 1981)

La Dernière Lettre(Frederick Wiseman, 2002)

The Lady of the Dig-Out(W.S. Van Dyke II, 1918)

Their Own Desire(E.Mason Hopper, 1929)

C) Very good movies made since 2015 seen for the first time in 2020:

Zumiriki(Oskar Alegria, 2019)

Atlantique(Mati Diop, 2019)

J’accuse(An Officier and A Spy;Roman Polanski, 2019)

Richard Jewell(Clint Eastwood, 2019)

Alice et le Maire(Nicolas Pariser, 2019)

Contes de Juillet(July Tales;Guillaume Brac, 2017)

Dark Waters(Todd Haynes, 2019)

Ofrenda a la tormenta(Fernando González Molina, 2020)

Nomad:In the Footsteps of Bruce Chatwin(Werner Herzog, 2019)

Into the Inferno(Werner Herzog, 2016)

The Zookeeper’s Wife(Niki Caro, 2017)

Journal de septembre(Eric Pauwels, 2019)

La Deuxième Nuit(Eric Pauwels, 2016)

Kaze no denwa(Voices in the Wind;Suwa Nobuhiro, 2019/20)

Da 5 Bloods(Spike Lee, 2020)

Izaokas(Isaac;Jurgis Matulevičius, 2019)

A Metamorfose dos Pássaros(Catarina Vasconcelos, 2020)

Tabi no Owari Sekai no Hajimari(To the Ends of the Earth;Kurosawa Kiyoshi, 2019)

La Nuit d’avant(Pablo García Canga, 2019)

My Mexican Bretzel(Nuria Giménez, 2018-9)

Domangchin yeoja(The Woman Who Ran;Hong Sang-soo, 2019/20)

Öndög(Wang Quanan, 2019)

Hatsukoi(First Love;Miike Takashi, 1959)

Million raz pogivaet odin Cheloviek(One man dies a million times;Jessica Oreck, 2018/9)

The Two Popes(Fernando Meirelles, 2019)

Félicité(Alain Gomis, 2016/7)

Salt and Fire(Werner Herzog, 2016)

Ni de lian(Your Face;Tsai Ming-liang, 2018)

Qi qiu(Balloon;Pema Tseden, 2019)

River Silence(Rogério Soares, 2019)

Charlie’s Angels(Elizabeth Banks, 2019)

La boda de Rosa(Iciar Bollain, 2020)

Guerra(War;José Oliveira & Marta Ramos, 2020)

My Thoughts Are Silent/Moyi dumky tykhi(Antonio Lukich, 2019)

Namo(The Alien;Nader Saeivar;co-script-Jafar Panahi, 2020)

Los silencios(The Silences;Beatriz Seigner, 2018)

Terminal Sud(Rabah Ameur-Zaïmeche, 2019)

Tu mérites un amour(You Deserve a Lover;Hafsia Herzi, 2019)

Les Misérables(Ladj Ly, 2019)

Padre no hay más que uno(Santiago Segura, 2019)

Honeyland(Tamara Kotovska & Ljubomir Stefanov, 2019)

Izbrisana(Erased;Miha Mazzini & Dusan Joksimovic, 2018)

This Is Not A Burial, It’s A Resurrection(Lemohang Jeremiah Mosese, 2019)

Primero Enero(Darío Mascambroni, 2016)

Lahi, Hayop(Pan, Genus/Genus Pan;Lav Diaz, 2020)

D) Very good movies made before 2015 seen for the first time in 2020:

Topaze(Marcel Pagnol, 1936)

The SIGN OF THE RAM(John Sturges, 1947/8)

Abandoned(Joseph M. Newman, 1949)

Bewitched(Arch Oboler, 1944/5)

La Femme du Bout du Monde((Jean Epstein, 1937)

The Outcast(William Witney, 1954)

Saadia(Albert Lewin, 1953)

Un monde sans femmes(Guillaume Brac, 2011)

Dishonored Lady(Robert Stevenson, 1947)

Always Goodbye(Signey Lanfield, 1938)

A Blueprint for Murder(Andrew L. Stone, 1953)

Bedevilled(Mitchell Leisen, 1955)

That Forsyte Woman(Compton Bennett, 1949)

The Miracle(Irving Rapper, 1959)

The Madonna’s Secret(Wilhelm Thiele, 1946)

The Town That Dreaded Sundown(Charles B. Pierce, 1976)

Grayeagle(Charles B. Pierce, 1977)

Barricade(Peter Godfrey, 1949/50)

Tomorrow is Forever(Irving Pichel, 1945/6)

David Harum(James Cruze, 1934)

The Vanquished(Edward Ludwig, 1953)

Keisatsukan(Uchida Tomu, 1933)

...Enfants des courants d’air(Édouard Luntz, 1959, short)

The Winds of Autumn(Charles B. Pierce, 1976)

Suddenly It’s Spring(Mitchell Leisen, 1946)

Uchūjin Tōkyō ni arawaru(Warning from Space;Shima Kōji, 1956)

Swiss Family Robinson(Edward Ludwig, 1940)

Ludwig der Zweite, König von Bayern(Wilhelm Dieterle, 1930)

Faithless(Harry Beaumont, 1932)

Botan-dorō(Peony Lanterns;Yamamoto Satsuo, 1968)

Ginza 24 chou(Tales of Ginza;Kawashima Yūzō, 1955)

Goodbye Again(Michael Curtiz, 1933)

Lines of White on a Sullen Sea(D.W. Griffith, 1909)

You Gotta Stay Happy(H.C. Potter, 1948)

Cave of Forgotten Dreams(Werner Herzog, 2010)

Riff-Raff(Ted Tetzlaff, 1947)

The Moon is Down(Irving Pichel, 1943)

The Bride Wore Boots(Irving Pichel, 1946)

Adventures in Silverado(Phil Karlson, 1948)

The Stolen Ranch(William Wyler, 1926)

Congo Maisie(H.C. Potter, 1940)

Marcides(Mercedes;Yousry Nasrallah, 1993)

Hell’s Five Hours(Jack L. Copeland, 1958)

Daniel(in Stimulantia;Ingmar Bergman, 1967)

Diên Biên Phú(Pierre Schoendoerffer, 1992)

Canyon River(Cattle King;Harmon Jones, 1956)

Dos Basuras(Kurt Land, 1958)

Smart Girls Don’t Talk(Richard L. Bare, 1948)

The Big Shakedown(John Francis Dillon, 1933/4)

Corvette K-225(Richard Rosson;p.,collab.Howard Hawks, 1943)

The Gay Deception(William Wyler, 1935)

The Invisible Woman(A.Edward Sutherland, 1940)

Rage in Heaven(W.S. Van Dyke II;collab.Robert B. Sinclair,Richard Thorpe, 1941)

Wild Side(Sébastien Lifshitz, 2004)

I bambini e noi(Luigi Comencini, 1970//7)

The House Across The Street(Richard L. Bare, 1948/9)

The Doughgirls(James V. Kern, 1944)

The Love Trap(William Wyler, 1929)

Torch Song(Charles Walters, 1953)

The Meanest Man in the World(Sidney Lanfield, 1942/3)

Cole Younger, Gunfighter(R.G. Springsteen, 1958)

Ballerine(Gustav Machatý, 1936)

Via Mala(Josef von Báky, 1945//8)

Sky Giant(Lew Landers, 1938)

Les Invisibles(Sébastien Lifshitz, 2012)

Promène toi donc tout nu(Emmanuel Mouret, 1998)

A Story for the Modlins(Una historia para los Modlin;Sergio Oksman, 2012)

Something in the Wind(Irving Pichel, 1947)

Spoveď(Confession;Pavol Skýkova, 1968)

Guilty Hands(W.S. Van Dyke II;collab.Lionel Barrymore, 1931)

Atto di accusa(Giacomo Gentilomo, 1950)

Suspense(Frank Tuttle, 1956)

This Is The Night(Frank Tuttle, 1932)

Escape in the Fog(Oscar ‘Budd’ Boetticher,Jr., 1945)

The Price of Fear(Abner Biberman, 1956)

Happy People:A Year in the Taiga(Werner Herzog, 2010)

Urok(The Lesson;Kristina Grozeva & Petar Valchanov, 2014)

Le Naufragé(Guillaume Brac, 2009)

Lili Marlen(Peter Mihálik;script.Dušan Hanák, 1970;short)

Deseo(Antonio Zavala Kugler, 2013)

E) Great movies that improved by new watchings:

Shanghai Express(Josef von Sternberg, 1932)

The Best Years of Our Lives(William Wyler, 1946)

Till We Meet Again(Frank Borzage, 1944)

Man’s Favorite Sport?(Howard Hawks, 1963/4)

Along The Great Divide(Raoul Walsh, 1951)

Hondo(John V. Farrow, 1953)

Where The Sidewalk Ends(Otto Preminger, 1950)

Mrs. Miniver(William Wyler, 1942)

Driftwood(Allan Dwan, 1947)

‘Good-bye, My Lady’(William A. Wellman, 1956)

Touch of Evil(Preview version, 1975;not later ‘improvements’)(Orson Welles, 1958)

Le Crabe-Tambour(Pierre Schoendoerffer, 1977)

Unfinished Business(Gregory LaCava, 1941)

Madigan(Don Siegel, 1968)

Big Business(James Wesley Horne;s.Leo McCarey, 1929)

Putting Pants on Philip(Clyde A. Bruckman;s.Leo McCarey, 1927)

The Runner Stumbles(Stanley Kramer, 1979)

Yushima no Shiraume(Romance at Yushima;Kinugasa Teinosukē, 1955)

David Harum(Allan Dwan, 1915)

The Virginian(Cecil B. DeMille, 1914)

Island in the Sky(William A. Wellman, 1953)

All About Eve(Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1950)

L’Eclisse(Michelangelo Antonioni, 1962)

The Roaring Twenties(Raoul Walsh, 1939)

The Plainsman(Cecil B. DeMille, 1936)

JLG/JLG-Autoportrait de décembre(Jean-Luc Godard, 1994)

‘Je vous salue, Marie’(Hail Mary;Jean-Luc Godard, 1984)

La Roue(Abel Gance, 1923)

They All Laughed(Peter Bogdanovich, 1981)

Innocent Blood(John Landis, 1992)

An American Werewolf in London(John Landis, 1981)

The Thing Called Love(Peter Bogdanovich, 1993)

Into the Night(John Landis, 1985)

The File On Thelma Jordon(Thelma Jordon;Robert Siodmak, 1949)

The Little American(Cecil B. DeMille, 1917)

In Our Time(Vincent Sherman, 1944)

The Hunters(Dick Powell, 1958)

Phase IV(Saul Bass, 1974)

L’Honneur d’un Capitaine(Pierre Schoendoerffer, 1982)

Backfire(Vincent Sherman, 1948//50)

Five(Arch Oboler, 1951)

Somewhere in the Night(Joseph L. Mankiewiz, 1946)

A Man Alone(Ray Milland, 1955)

Die Geiger von Florez(Paul Czinner, 1926)

Living on Velvet(Frank Borzage, 1934/5)

La Recta provincia(Raúl Ruiz, 2007//15)

La Noche de enfrente(Raúl Ruiz, 2012)

Carrie(Sister Carrie;William Wyler, 1951/2)

The Spiral Staircase(Robert Siodmak, 1945/6)

The Paradine Case(Alfred Hitchcock, 1947)

L’Amore(Una voce umana+Il Miracolo)(Roberto Rossellini, 1947/8)

The Heiress(William Wyler, 1949)

F) Very good movies watched again

Bluebeard’s 10 Honeymoons(W.Lee Wilder, 1960)

The Five Pennies(Melville Shavelson, 1958)

Take a Letter, Darling(Mitchell Leisen, 1942)

Escape(Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1948)

Appassionatamente(Giacomo Gentilomo, 1954)

Así como habían sido(Trío)(Andrés Linares, 1986/7)

San Antone(Joseph Kane, 1953)

The High and the Mighty(William A. Wellman, 1954)

Taki no Shiraito(The Water Magician;Mizoguchi Kenji, 1933)

The Web(Michael Gordon, 1947)

The Buccaneer(Anthony Quinn;s.Cecil B. DeMille, 1958)

The Buccaneer(Cecil B. DeMille, 1938)

Desire Me(uncredited:George Cukor/Jack Conway/Mervyn LeRoy/Victor Saville, 1946)

Flaxy Martin(Richard L. Bare, 1948/9)

Swing High, Swing Low(Mitchell Leien, 1937)

Death Takes A Holiday(Mitchell Leisen, 1934)

Irene(Herbert Wilcox, 1940)

Beloved Enemy(H.C. Potter, 1936)

The Cowboy and the Lady(H.C. Potter, 1938)

Der Golem, wie er in die Welt kam(Paul Wegener, 1920)

Mia madre(Nanni Moretti, 2015)

Hell On Frisco Bay(Frank Tuttle, 1955)

Stormy Weather(Andrew L. Stone, 1943)

The Milky Way(Leo McCarey;w.Harold Lloyd, 1936)

Pietà per chi cade(Mario Costa, 1954)

Repeat Performance(Alfred L. Werker, 1947)

Das indische Grabmal:1.Die Sendung des Yoghi,2.Der Tiger von Eschnapur(Joe May, 1921)

Julie(Andrew L. Stone, 1956)

The Member of the Wedding(Fred Zinnemann, 1953)

Winterset(Alfred Santell, 1936)

The Right to Romance(Alfred Santell, 1933)

As Young as You Feel(Harmon Jones, 1951)

You’ll Never Get Rich(Sidney Lanfield, 1941)

The Woman Accused(Paul Sloane, 1933)

Foma Gordeiev(Mark Donskoí, 1959)

The Parent Trap(David Swift, 1961)

High Wall(Curtis Bernhardt, 1947)

Mr. Lucky(H.C. Potter, 1943)

Un Marido de Ida y Vuelta(Luis Lucia, 1957)

The Safecracker(Ray Milland, 1957/8)

She’s Funny That Way(Peter Bogdanovich, 2014)

Oh...Rosalinda!!(Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger, 1955)

Caribbean(Edward Ludwig, 1952)

Harper(The Moving Target;Jack Smight, 1966)

For You I Die(John Reinhardt, 1947)

Crashing Hollywood(Lew Landers, 1937/8)

Le Souvenir d’un avenir(Chris. Marker & Yannick Bellon, 2001)

Susan Slept Here(Frank Tashlin, 1954)

Bishkanyar Deshot(In the Land of Poison Women;Manju Borah, 2019)

Pollyanna(David Swift, 1960)

A Tale of Two Cities(Jack Conway;collab.Val Lewton & Jacques Tourneur, 1935)

Café Society(Woody Allen, 2016)

Shadow on the Wall(Patrick Jackson, 1949/50)

Tonnerre(Guillaume Brac, 2013)

Le Jouet criminel(Adolfo G. Arrieta, 1969)

‘Once more, with feeling!’(Stanley Donen, 1959)

The Shopworn Angel(H.C. Potter, 1938)

The Absent Minded Professor(Robert Stevenson, 1961)

Gavaznha(The Deer;Masud Kimiai, 1974)

#listas

17 notes · View notes

saintstrawberry · 4 years

Text

When the Night is Over/Just What I Needed

Second Chapter is up!

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27733207/chapters/68086045#workskin

Ships:

bokuaka, kuroken, kagehina, daisuga, daiaka, iwaoi

Description:

A surprise visit, mariokart, and Oikawa. Malibu also makes an appearance (Or multiple).

Notes: Akaashi has a bad memory. Relatable content.

Songs I recommend for this chap are Dionysus by the Buttertones, Best Interest by Tyler the Creator (for Kuroo), and Shampoo Bottles by Peach Pit for the ending. I promise Bokuto will show up in the next chap! >.<

I also make a reference to Natsume Ono because she smacks! Read her manga Not Simple; it is fantastic!

Thank you for reading!

—————

Shampoo Bottles

It’s Saturday, something Akaashi doesn’t realize until he is flying halfway out his front door and huffing a breath at his phone screen’s mocking display: 6:30 AM, Saturday, June 14th. Exactly a week before Hinata’s birthday.

He blinks and remembers the night before, when he was nursing a red wine and a deadline for his “Ono Natsume: Shouting for the Voiceless” article. He remembers, vaguely, submitting the piece at 11:50 and dropping his head right there on his cheap Ikea desk, exhausted.

Presently, he’s nodding awkwardly at his neighbor (leaving the complex to work out, no less) and trying to make it look, somehow, like he meant to open his front door only to close it seconds later.

Toeing off his work shoes and entirely caught off guard by the idea of a day off, Akaashi retreats to his bed. He passes out almost as soon as his foggy head hits the pillow, dreaming of nothing. The next time he opens his eyes, his breath and body still completely.

“Mornin’, sleeping beauty! It’s ten, I’m surprised you slept so long!”

“Kuroo-san, why are you in my apartment?”

The offender offers no answer but grins brilliantly, gold irises level with Akaashi’s blue-green.

“And just how long have you been here anyway?” Kuroo ignores him again, instead choosing to stand from his squatting position. His hands at his hips, Kuroo wears a white oversized Bouncing Ball hoodie and black skinny jeans. Much to Akaashi’s discomfort, he still has his shoes on- red and white high top sneakers with the laces tucked in. As always, the guy’s flawlessly disheveled, silver jewelry glinting from his ears and neck.

Akaashi groans and plants his face in his pillow. It’s too early for the young, beautiful, and rich.

Kuroo, unsurprisingly, doesn’t yield Akaashi’s thoughts and scoffs once. He moves to draw open the curtains in his room. Keiji can’t help but grimace as he feels his skin bathed in hot summer light.

“Man. You should really dust your windowsills. Do you even ever open these things?! You’re not some bat, ‘Kaashi. You need fresh air.”

“I think bats need air too,” Akaashi mumbles into the pillow.

Kuroo waves a dismissive hand and turns to survey him, arms folded across a broad chest. Keiji reluctantly turns his head to address his stare, squinting without the aid of his glasses or contacts. Kuroo’s bedhead is seemingly even worse today- probably from whatever plane he just hopped out of. The latter smirks devilishly.

“Well. Are you gonna welcome me back or what?”

“So you didn’t expect to land in Tokyo until Thursday?” Akaashi asks this of Kuroo about 45 minutes after his intrusion into the writer’s apartment. The pair are getting brunch in some needlessly swanky rooftop restaurant, one where Kuroo insisted he wouldn’t get recognized. Akaashi raised his eyebrows at that- his friend had stuffed his signature messy locks into one of Akaashi’s ratty baseball caps and donned aviators the moment they got outside.

No matter to him, anyway. Akaashi got fancy champagne out of the deal.

“Sure didn’t. Management canceled the show in Singapore last minute. Something about the venue. Fuck if I know,” Kuroo explains almost incoherently through colossal bites of egg.

“What matters is nobody got hurt. We refunded tickets and rescheduled the gig. S’all good. I’m just happy to be back home with my buddy!” Kuroo reaches over to slap Akaashi on the back with a friendly grin.

He’s sputtering over his mimosa when Kuroo continues, “Can’t wait to surprise Kenma tonight, either. Can you imagine his face?"

“Yeah, actually, I can,” Akaashi slouches his shoulders forward in his chair with an uninterested expression and quirks up an eyebrow ever so slightly, impersonating his best friend.

“Hey, that was pretty good! Though I guess it’s not that hard for you. You’re both pretty stoic. Like Easter Island Heads.”

Akaashi swats at him half-heartedly. Kuroo laughs.

“Anyway, you’re lucky I didn’t call him immediately this morning- or the police for that matter,” Akaashi says matter of factly. Kuroo clutches at his heart dramatically.

“Akaashi-kun. You wound me. I am the furthest from a criminal.”

Akaashi huffs a laugh.

“Tell the Osaka police force that.”

“Hey! What, a guy can’t take a piss anymore?”

“Not, apparently, from the top of the Umeda Sky Building-”

“To be fair, I didn’t know the police officer was right there,” Kuroo interjects.

“-After downing half a bottle of Malibu with Oikawa. And you were 17. You were lucky you didn’t get charged with public indecency.”

Kuroo pouts but offers no petition.

“Guilty as charged, I suppose. Hey, speaking of police officers-”

Akaashi clears his throat and interrupts, “Speaking of drinking, how was Singapore?”

Kuroo takes the hint and stretches back in his chair, raising his third bloody mary to his lips.

“Didn’t get much time there, only about four days before I got the call about the cancellation. Flew straight here after the news.”

Straight to Kenma, Akaashi supplies mentally, grinning fondly at his friends’ relationship.

“Anyway, it was pretty mild, all things considered. Bokuto seemed to like the clubbing scene more than I did. Matter of fact, he’s staying there ‘til the next concert.”

“Bokuto?” Akaashi says, cutting into his eggs and watching the yolk spill onto his fork.

Kuroo, now onto his nearly 2,500 yen crepe, takes a break from his meal to look up at him with a puzzled stare.

“My tourmate? Bokuto Koutarou? X. Ace?”

Akaashi meets his eyes blankly.

“I guess it makes sense his stage name doesn’t ring a bell, but I’m surprised you don’t know about the guy’s v-ball career.”

The blue-eyed 24 year old drops his gaze to the napkin in his lap.

“Sorry, sorry. Touchy topic.”

Pain-in-the-ass-Kuroo-san.

“Anyway, you should really check out some of his matches with the Panthers.”

“He was signed with the Panthers?” Akaashi sputters, clapping his mouth shut immediately after.

Kuroo cackles.

“Don’t give yourself a heart attack, Akaashi. It’s okay to be impressed- it’s impressive. He’s crazy. You’ll be meeting him soon.”

Akaashi only hums in response.

"You're coming to the show, right?"

Akaashi hums again.

"Big talker today, huh, Keiji?"

"Bah."

“Right. So.. you baited yourself a hook yet?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You know. After Daichi,” Kuroo tries again.

No, he really hasn’t.

Akaashi downs the rest of his drink. He peers into his empty glass in response.

“Haven’t thought about it really. He said it himself- I don’t have the time.”

“Oh, Keiji. Nevermind him.”

“Don’t sigh like that. Did you fly all the way from China to pity me?”

The rapper shakes his head, “No, I didn’t. I just want you to-”

“Be as happy as you are with Kenma,” Keiji finishes.

Kuroo gives a gentle smile, “Can you blame me?”

“God. You two are worse than the shoujo manga I have to review.”

“But twice as fun.”

“Shut up and eat your crepe.”

Kuroo happily complies, “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

“I’m glad you’re home, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi remarks. And he is. Even with his busy lifestyle as a chart-topping artist, Kuroo somehow manages to draw Kenma and Akaashi out of the house.

Kuroo and Kenma are both relatively new to their fame- about three years out from Kuroo’s first breakthrough hit and four since Kenma first started his Bouncing Ball Youtube channel- but their fans are… dedicated. Akaashi often marvels at how even Kenma takes it in stride. He's entertaining to watch and a seasoned video game expert. And Kuroo... Akaashi looks to the man and the ketchup stain on his lip.

"What?"

Well, they both deserve their good fortune.

"Nothing, nothing."

He has interviewed them each multiple times for the journal. The good thing about his friends’ famous status is that Akaashi gets to profit from it as well. He tells Kuroo as much and the latter almost chokes on his stupidly expensive breakfast laughing. Even Akaashi cracks a small grin.

“I told that was him!” The writer hears two girlish voices behind him, talking in excited whispers.

“E-Excuse me, K-Kuroo-san?”

The rapper breaks out in a large grin and stands, bowing formally at the pair.

“Yes? Hello, ladies. Are you two fans of mine?”

“Yes!! Very much so! I loved your new song!” The girl, about 17 with dark lashes and fire red hair, praises politely.

“Would, would you mind taking a picture with us!?” The other chirps.

“Not at all! Akaashi, my pal, would you be a dear and snap some shots?” It takes everything for Akaashi not to roll his eyes.

“But of course.”

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

This is how Akaashi comes to search up the 2018 Panthers roster on his phone’s Google. He gives up his sleuthing when he realizes he doesn’t remember the guy’s name or know what he looks like.

He forgets about the whole thing until later that night, at Kenma’s celebration party for 5 million followers. It’s small, of course, about ten of them drinking champagne and playing drinking games. Akaashi knows Hinata did all the planning anyway, despite the event being at Kenma’s. The trio is standing off to the side when Akaashi pulls out his phone briefly to check the time.

Kuroo should be here any minute, he thinks. Hinata peers too, instinctually curious.

“Hey! Whatcha looking up the Panthers for? That’s not the latest roster, you know! Ooh, you’re looking up X-Ace, right?! Seeeeee, I knew you’d like him!”

Akaashi looks down at the picture Hinata points to. The guy’s sturdy and smug with one thick eyebrow raised. His chest is broad and his eyes are perfectly golden. The first thing Akaashi notices, however, is his hair. Absolutely ridiculous, he thinks. Makes sense that this guy’s Hinata’s idol.

Kenma raises his eyebrows.

“What made you do that?” he asks.

“Oh, uh, just...curious.”

Kenma looks like he’s about to say more when Oikawa joins their group with a boisterous, “Pudding Head! Congratsssss!” He pinches the smaller’s cheeks, who just about hisses in response.

Akaashi, grateful for Oikawa’s interruption, takes another quick glance at… X-Ace, and pockets his phone.

Hinata grins wide when Tooru, seemingly already a bit tipsy, ruffles his hair.

“Thanks, Oikawa-san," Kenma begrudgingly replies.

“You know, Kuroo is-”

Akaashi, ever vigilant, cuts in immediately, “-is so happy for you, Ken.”

Oikawa seems to get the hint, his eyes widening in realization.

“He sure is! Want some more alcohol?” The chestnut-haired friend of Kuroo’s quickly shoves his bottle of strawberry rum in Kenma’s face.

“You know I hate your sticky Malibu. Why are you guys acting all weird?”

Hinata, completely oblivious to the unspoken diaogue between Akaashi and Oikawa, tugs Kenma’s shirt.

“Kenma, Kenma! We should stream!!”

“Hey, that’s not too bad an idea, Shoyo,” Akaashi adds, if just to distract him.

“Sure, we could play some Mario-Kart. My fans seem to like you guys. Just don’t do anything stupid, Tooru.”

“Who, me?! And when do I-” Oikawa starts dramatically. The rest of the men send him a collective stare which answers his question before he can even finish it. He crosses his arms with a huff.

“Whatever. I call Princess Peach.”

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

After Kenma finishes setting up the Livestream and the small group has gained over a couple thousand viewers, Akaashi is in dead last as Blooper. Well, almost dead last, expect for...

“How am I losing? No fair, Kozume!” Oikawa whines.

“Me? What did I do?” Kenma-san replies, uninterested. Unsurprisingly, the Youtuber is in first place with his signature Toad.

“I don’t know, your fancy settings or something. Iwa-chan! Back me up, here!”

“It’s ‘cause you suck, Trashy-kawa,” Iwaizumi-san, whom the quartet bribed into playing with agedashi dofu, doesn’t hesitate to retaliate. His player, Bowser, is in second, with Hinata close behind as Yoshi.

“Take that, Hajime-san! Oh, shoot, sorry, Akaashi-san!” Hinata shouts, rising from his seat as he hurls a red shell, accidentally hitting Keiji.

“Hinata, language!” Kuroo’s smooth voice floods the apartment in mock disapproval. Kenma whips his head so fast he drops his controller. The blonde doesn’t say anything but slowly rises to his feet, then breaks into a short run at the sight of his boyfriend. The former picks up Kenma effortlessly and twirls him in a tight embrace. Akaashi looks on fondly.

“Kuroo-san!” Hinata exclaims, jumping up excitedly.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Tetsuro’s home. I’m about to kick all of your asses!” Oikawa waves away his entrance, sticking out his tongue. Iwaizumi slaps him on the back of the head.

The stream chat has exploded at the sound of Kuroo.

bb-corp: is that Kuroo???

applephi: NO WAY djwhdnbwibdfwq

yoyotetsuro: couple goals

kurokenxx: will anyone ever love me like Kuroo loves Kenma?

keeeeenmaaa_: I think this is the first time BouncingBall’s lost at Mariokart

----------

A little tired and a lot tipsy, Akaashi insists on taking a cab home. It doesn't feel right to invade Kenma's when the Kuroo's home. Keiji could tell the pair... needed their space for the night. He splits the ride with Hinata, who talks his ear off the whole way about Kuroo's arrival and how badly he wishes he had the money to go to a concert. Akaashi smirks at that, just a little. Shoyo exits the vehicle with an enthusiastic, "Bye, 'Kaashi-san!! I'll see you soon! Maybe I'll come to the store, or, or, you can come to see me and Tobio-chan! He didn't come out tonight because he has a game tomorrow, but-" The rest of his goodbye is drowned out by him closing the door.

"I apologize for the noise," Keiji addresses the driver. She makes a noise of recognition and drops him off 15 minutes later. He thinks about his conversation with Kuroo about "baiting his hook" as he enters his living room, dropping his keys unceremoniously on the floor next to his door. What does that even mean? Akaashi doesn't exactly meet a lot of people with his work and his friends are all, well, with each other. He's happy for them and all, but sometimes being around so many couples gets a bit nauseating. Akaashi is struck with a small wave of loneliness when he waters his small bamboo plant, made worse by the two shots of Malibu Oikawa shoved down his throat. This is all I have to come home to, a fucking bamboo plant. Akaashi stares at its braided stalks with a vengeance. Not a second later, he pets the leaves in apology. I shouldn't take this out on the plant.

He's always been relatively independent, but having someone felt kind of... nice, for a change. It's been almost a year since Daichi left, and probably 6 months since he and Suga got together. It's one of those things that Akaashi didn't process for awhile, forcing him to fend for himself when the realization came to knock him on his ass months down the line. He's been confronting turned over picture frames and empty sheets ever since.

And so it goes.

He pads over to his bed with a sigh and for the second time today, falls asleep and dreams of nothing.

#bokuaka #kagehina #iwaoi #fanfiction #haikyuu #kuroken #daisuga #daiaka #akaashi keiji #tsukishima kei #daichi sawamura #sugawara koushi #kuroo tetsurō #bokuto kotarou #kenma kozume #oikawa tooru #iwaizumi hajime #hinata shoyo #kageyama tobio

11 notes · View notes

theliterateape · 3 years

Text

Hell in a Handbasket

By David Himmel

SHE TAKES ONE LAST LONG DRAG FROM HER CIGARETTE. She pushes the smoke past her gleaming teeth and full lips and crushes the thing beneath her boot. Her black coffee has finally cooled to a barely drinkable temperature. She takes a sip as she enters the radio station. Another fucking morning show. This one in San Francisco. It’s still dark out and, between the cigarette and the coffee and all of the whiskey she drank last night, she has the worst morning breath in recorded human history.

She didn’t have time to brush her teeth. She overslept and was rushed out of her hotel room by Gavin the tour manager. The clothes she had worn at last night’s show were strewn across the floor. Gavin threw the jeans and Superman t-shirt at her as she struggled to get her naked body out of bed. She didn’t have to fuss with makeup or her hair; she looks the same at five in the morning in the grips of a hangover as she does at eleven at night when she’s in the grips of stage lights and adoring fans.

Way back before she was famous and had dreams of being interviewed by radio deejays, it didn’t matter what you looked like as much. The listeners couldn’t see you and the deejays looked just barely put together themselves. But today, everything is visual, and if this show is anything like all of the others, they’ll be recording the interview for the radio station’s YouTube page. She hates the beautification and objectification of women in the entertainment industry. However, she sees nothing wrong with not wanting to look like hammered rat shit, which is exactly how she feels. This morning, as she has been most mornings this past year, she’s self-aware enough to be thankful for her easy-to-manage looks.

Gavin makes the introductions in the studio. She smiles her big, brilliant smile—the one that makes men and women fall in love with her—and begins to charm the three morning show hosts.

“Good morning. I’m really happy to be here,” she says into the microphone. Her mouth is dry and it tastes like a circus floor. She reaches for the bottle of water one of the hosts handed her when she walked in. She thinks she should have had a piece of gum instead of that cigarette.

“You’re wearing a Superman t-shirt,” the fatter of the hosts says. “Are you a fan of the comics?”

“This isn’t a Superman t-shirt,” she says. “It’s a Supergirl t-shirt.”

“Hear, hear, sister!” says the woman host.

“And yes, I’m a fan of the comics.”

“For those of you just tuning in, we’ve got Jane Hadley in the studio with us this morning,” the thin host says in a well-rehearsed broadcaster’s voice. “If you’re not familiar with Jane Hadley then you’ve likely been in a coma trapped in a mine shaft for the past year. Her debut album, Hell in a Handbasket, is this year’s runaway hit and iTunes’ most downloaded album ever. Right now, Jane Hadley is a bigger deal than Taylor, Adele and Beyoncé.”

“Combined,” Fat Host says.

“And she’s performing a sold-out show at Decker Hall tonight,” Thin Host continues.

“But don’t worry,” Lady Host says, “if you didn’t get tickets for the show, we’ll be giving a pair away a little later on this morning. And I think—Jane, correct me if I’m wrong—that these tickets also include a backstage meet and greet.”

“They do,” Jane says. “I’ve even got my Selfie-Stick for photos.”

“Did you bring that Selfie-Stick with you this morning?” Fat Host asks. “I’d love to get a photo with you. You have to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen this early in the morning.”

Jane smiles and laughs a hearty laugh that not even the most high-tech lie detector test could determine its authenticity one way or the other. “I didn’t bring it but I’m sure we’ll find a way to take a photo without it.”

“And you’re going to play a few songs for us this morning, too, right?” Lady Host asks.

“I brought my guitar and will even take requests.”

The three hosts celebrate over this surprise. Thin Host says, “You hear that, K–POP listeners? The beautiful and talented, Goddess of Rock Jane Hadley will be taking your requests for a live, in-studio acoustic session! Don’t go anywhere. You’re listening to the Manic Morning Show on 97.1, K–POP.”

Thin Hosts glances at Fat Host who taps a series of buttons on the control board and clicks a wireless mouse linked to the monitors. A station bump plays followed by a commercial break beginning with an ad for a local diamond dealer. The hosts take their headphones off.

“Do people actually listen this early?” Jane asks as she also removes her headphones.

“Not anymore,” Thin Host says.

“We’ll replay everything with you in the eight o’clock hour,” Lady Host says.

This is not how Jane saw her life. For one thing, she never thought she’d be a smoker. But divorce can promote bad habits as diversions from the heartache. And for another thing, she never thought she’d be divorced at thirty-seven years old, though she was only thirty-five when it all happened, which only makes it worse. She is too young to be divorced and too old to only now find herself at rockstar status. Unfortunately, without the divorce, the fame and fortune—and morning radio show interviews—would have continued to elude her.

Before she was Jane Hadley, the rock ’n’ roll singer/songwriter—the Goddess of Rock, bigger than Taylor, Adele, and Beyoncé combined, she was Jane Hadley, the folk ’n’ roll singer/songwriter who never sold more than a thousand albums and a few hundred t-shirts. Before she had a #1 album flying off the shelves and being downloaded to the Cloud by millions, and an entire merchandising department, she was just a girl who played in a few bands: the Stargazers, Rosie’s Dream Catcher, Jane and the Jaded Cowboys.

None of these were good band names and she knew it. But she liked the music they made. Sweet, folky, only as loud as the all-acoustic gear would allow. All her bands looked the same. Jane played rhythm guitar and sang lead. The lead guitar, keyboard, upright bass and percussion were played by men. This wasn’t intentional, it’s just how things played out. They sounded similar, too, although each incarnation sounded more practiced than the last, a byproduct of age and gig experience.

The Stargazers was her high school band. It lasted long enough to play mostly Simon & Garfunkel covers at a few garage shows and the school’s Battle of the Bands. She formed Rosie’s Dream Catcher in college with her then boyfriend, keyboardist Matt. They recorded one CD of ten original songs. They sold all one hundred copies for two bucks a piece by the time the band, and Jane and Matt, split three years later.

She wonders why they are waxing intellectual about Kurt Cobain and the meaning of “Smells Like Teen Spirit?” She just wants to plug tonight’s show, play a few songs, maybe answer a call and give vague, recycled answers about what inspired her to write the album. Instead, she’s bemoaning about the trappings of fame and denying any intention of making an album that will last the test of time. How Gen X of her. How Fiona Apple of her. How awful of her.

Jane always figured that if success in the music business was ever going to come to her it would have been with Jane and the Jaded Cowboys. It took her a little while to become comfortable with her name being segregated from the band name. She didn’t want to be a Diana Ross or Gloria Estefan but Adam, the guitarist, thought they should capitalize on the gender difference and put their radiant leader out front while her boys backed her up. Adam was a marketing major in college and while he was a gifted guitarist, his real talent was in hype.

Jane and the Jaded Cowboys were prolific. Their songwriting was a science. Jane would come to practice with lyrics ripped from her many tattered Moleskin journals and a tune she thought worked with the words. From there, all five would flesh the thing out until they had a nice little folky pop song. They were a good team and their musical tastes and abilities complemented each other well.

With the freedom provided by quarter-life adulthood, they toured a lot in the sixteen years they were together. They earned fans but none who would bleed for them, really. They played the festivals and a few of the storied concert halls spread throughout the country. They headlined some shows and shared the bill with acts that would go on to the kind of fame and success that Jane and the Jaded Cowboys were chasing but never caught up to.

Because being in the band didn’t pay a livable wage, everyone had real jobs. Jane tended bar at Queen Lizzie, a hipster hotspot in Chicago where the drinks are overpriced and the customers happily overpay. She hated the place and the customers but the money was too good to walk away from. She was able to afford the necessities: instruments, rent, food, clothes, tour van, gas money for the tour van and Moleskin journals. She even managed to save a fair amount and really hack away at her student loans. Not that her degree in art history was worth more than the paper the degree was printed on.

The songs she wrote reflected her life. They featured themes of loneliness, desire, road trips and regret. The songs weren’t bad. But they weren’t great either. Their most popular song among their few loyal fans is called “Photographic Art History.” It’s about wasting time and energy. One critic, writing for an online publication about the lineup of a summer festival in Chicago, described Jane and the Jaded Cowboys as, “a band that makes perfect background music for the perfect lazy day of napping.” On the band’s Facebook page, Adam spun the opinion by posting the review and writing, “IndieRock.com says ‘Jane and the Jaded Cowboys makes perfect music for the perfect day!’”

Jane hated the hype. But it was the best her band ever got.

And speaking of hype…

“Rolling Stone called you the voice of women of this generation,” Thin Host says. They are back from commercial break. “That seems like it could come with a lot of responsibility. Do you feel responsible to speak for your generation?”

Since Hell in a Handbasket dropped, many critics had echoed Rolling Stone’s claim. Jane used to see herself as a Joni Mitchell type, or Carole King or Carly Simon. Women from a very different generation. And one that isn’t hers. She isn’t even sure which generation the critics are talking about. At thirty-seven years old, she’s no longer part of the youth culture but she’s too young, still, and new to fame, to be a music veteran. And in the entertainment industry, the young and the old were the major markets. Everyone in the middle is white noise. Jane feels that if she’s the voice of any generation right now, it’s the White Noise Generation. But she can’t say that.

“First of all, it’s an insanely flattering thing to say about someone,” Jane answers. “But it’s also an insanely broad generalization and a little presumptuous. I didn’t make this record to be a statement about women or for all women or anything like that. And if we look at music history, we don’t ever really know how representative a musician was or wasn’t to her generation—or his—until the music has had time to mature and that generation, or whatever, has adapted from it in some way.”

“Well, take Kurt Cobain. In a way, your situation is similar to Cobain’s,” Thin Host says. “He was considered the voice of Generation X right out of the gate. And he was dead before his music and his generation really even had a chance to—what did you call it?—mature. But everyone was right. Kurt Cobain was, and still is considered to be, the voice of his generation.”

“So if you don’t already have a heroin addiction, you better get on that,” Fat Host says.

“No, then she’d just be compared to Courtney Love. And no woman wants to be compared to Courtney Love,” Lady Host says.

“Yikes. God no. That’s even worse than being compared to Yoko Ono,” Jane says.

“There are so many awful women in rock ’n’ roll,” Fat Host says.

“You named two,” Jane says. “The awful men in rock ’n’ roll still outweigh us twenty-to-one.”

“And that’s why she wears that t-shirt,” Lady Host says.

They all have a laugh as Jane glances at the clock on the studio wall. She’s booked for an hour. It’s only been eleven minutes. She wants to go back to sleep. The coffee isn’t working. She considers what it would be like if she did start using heroin. It’s cheaper than booze, cigarettes and even coffee. And on the road, it’s often easier to get.

“Okay, I understand that you’re reluctant to accept your influential role in today’s culture,” Thin Host says.

“It’s not a reluctance,” she says.

“A rejection then,” he says.

“No. I mean, they’re just songs.”

“But don’t you want your songs to mean something? Isn’t that what every artist wants?”

“Sure. In a way. This album means what it means to me. I can’t control what it means to anyone else. It’s nice that it’s been so well received. I’m touched that people are finding their own meanings in the songs.”

“So you’re saying that the song, the first single, ‘Onward,’ isn’t symbolic of the woman’s place in today’s society.”

“I think Hemingway said something about the foolishness of trying to include symbols in your work on purpose,” Jane says.

“So no.”

“‘Onward’ is a song about my ex-husband moving out of our apartment and me, a woman, having to make sense of what he, a man, had left behind. If that is perceived as anything other than that—”

“I understood it as a break-up song,” Lady Host says.

“But things can be perceived by any number of people in any number of ways. That’s the great thing about art. Let me ask you guys a question. Since you brought him up, what does ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ mean to you? What’s that song about?”

“Making trouble,” Thin Host says.

“Cheerleaders,” Fat Host says.

“Disaffected youth,” Lady Host says.

“All I ever think about when I hear that song is deodorant. That song is a deodorant jingle to me. Because when that song came out, I was eleven years old and Teen Spirit was the brand of deodorant I used.”

“Commerce,” Fat Host says. “Cobain is rolling over in his grave.”

“Nah,” Jane says. “He knew damn well what he was doing when he titled that song. He was being funny—Oh crap, can I say the ‘D’ word?”

The hosts laugh. “Yes, ‘damn’ is allowed. ‘Crap,’ is not,” Thin Host says. They laugh some more then he presses on. “Symbols or not, this album is incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“I doubt that you’d call it a concept album.”

“Not in the traditional meaning of concept album, no. I mean, it’s not The Wall. But it was conceived by specific events. There’s a theme.”

“It’s a break up album,” Lady Host says.

“It is indeed a break up album. A break up and all of the, um, crap, that comes with it.”

She knows she sounds like a pedantic blowhard. They are baiting her into it and she is too strung out on exhaustion and weak coffee to resist. She wonders why they are waxing intellectual about Kurt Cobain and the meaning of “Smells Like Teen Spirit?” She just wants to plug tonight’s show, play a few songs, maybe answer a call and give vague, recycled answers about what inspired her to write the album. Instead, she’s bemoaning about the trappings of fame and denying any intention of making an album that will last the test of time. How Gen X of her. How Fiona Apple of her. How awful of her.

But after two weeks of horrendous heartbreak, isolation, and alcoholism, Jane had come to one conclusion: right or not, fuck Keith.

She is saved from falling deeper into these asinine rock critic musings when the hosts go to break again. They’ve cued listeners to call in with questions and requests. The first three callers request “Onward,” to no one’s surprise. Jane pulls her guitar from its case and gives it a gentle tuning. She gets the familiar sinking knot in her stomach as she does.

Her departure from acoustic folk to electric rock was the best way for her to get through the pain of her divorce. It allowed her to turn the deafening sadness into rollicking anger. And every time she plays these songs with an electric guitar and her banging, thrumming, clanging tour band alongside her, she becomes more and more removed from the origin of the source material. She’s healed each night. And in quieter moments in between cities on the bus, when she finds herself descending toward that sadness and regret, she can listen to the album at top volume through her headphones and relive the anger and gravitate toward getting over the goddamn thing.

But there’s no escaping the raw bones of truth when she plays the songs acoustically on radio shows like this. She wanted to bring the band with her and at least have a bigger sound so the songs weren’t so stripped down and she didn’t feel so naked. But her management vetoed it. The fans wanted Jane Hadley naked. And that’s what they were getting. And every time she tunes the guitar to play “Onward,” she is rocketed into a wretched reverie of when she first tuned the guitar to write the song.

Keith had just closed the door of the apartment with his last box of stuff under his arm. It had been the first time they’d seen each other since he asked for a divorce two weeks before and fled to wherever he had been staying. Jane spent those two weeks crying, substituting alcohol and cigarettes for meals, sleeping on the living room floor because she couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping alone in their bed and didn’t feel that she deserved the comfort of the couch. She was emotionally destroyed and she thought it best to destroy herself physically, too.

He said some pretty nasty things when he left. There were accusations of infidelity because she played songs that weren’t about him. He blamed her for his inability to secure a steady and well-paying gig because she was not supportive enough. He called her a manipulator and a user and chastised her for having more friends than he had.

None of these accusations were true and he was clearly taking his own self-loathing out on her. How could someone’s likability make her unlikable? Keith had found a way. The two therapists they had seen every week since getting married eight months before, called it projecting. Keith denied it and Jane believed everything he said.

But after two weeks of horrendous heartbreak, isolation, and alcoholism, Jane had come to one conclusion: right or not, fuck Keith. Watching him leave with a box of his mother’s old stained Tupperware was enough to pull her off of the floor and begin writing music again. “Onward” became Jane’s life’s statement of purpose. And as the first single and the album’s first track, it became the album’s statement of purpose, too. And thus, it became a generation of women’s statement of purpose.

She didn’t even have to write the lyrics down and work them out in her notebook like usual. She just played and sang and it all came together. She scribbled it down once she was done and the song, at first, resembled every other song she had written. Soft, slow, melancholy. She didn’t want that. She wanted something different. Because the same old song hadn’t done her much good for her career or her internal struggle. She didn’t feel soft, slow or melancholy. She felt hard, fast and fucking pissed. She dusted off her electric Gibson and amp and played the song faster and louder. She felt alive again. She felt angry. She felt inspired.

She lit a cigarette and played it again. She recorded it and upon listening back, she heard a voice she didn’t recognize but loved. The chorus made her smile, even though it felt strange on her face.

You took my love And let it burn Scorched and ashen I move onward

✶

SHE MET KEITH LESTINGHOUSE AT A SHOW IN PEORIA, ILLINOIS. He was a videographer and had been hired to document the headlining band, the Dandelions, who a year later would win the Grammy Award for Best New Artist. Keith’s art direction in the documentary was lauded for its grit, the way it “captured the essence of budding rock ’n’ roll success,” according to some well-respected blogger somewhere online.

She found Keith smart and funny, and thought his patchy beard and thin, lanky body made him handsome. He seemed to genuinely like Jane’s music and her band. And he seemed to like her. By the end of their first date, they realized that they had been a match on each other’s online dating profiles.

“Why didn’t you ever send me a message?” she asked him.

“Why didn’t you ever send me one?” he replied.

He was a feminist and she liked that about him, too.

Six months in, they were engaged. Two months after that, they were married. It was a small ceremony held in her parents’ barn at their farm in Dowagiac, Michigan. She wore cowboy boots with her consignment wedding dress, he wore black Chuck Taylor sneakers with his new suit from an online custom clothier. An hour before the wedding, Jane cried all of her makeup away when Keith requested that her father not walk her down the aisle. Well, he didn’t have any family at the wedding, therefore, her father’s obvious presence was her way of rubbing it in that he was an estranged son. Jane conceded. Then Keith decided that it was okay for her dad to walk her down the aisle after all. This was the first crack in the façade of perfection Jane had placed Keith behind. Then, at the reception, Jane and the Jaded Cowboys played a song she wrote just for Keith, just for their wedding. Drunk, he mistook it for a song about some other guy and stormed off into the Dowagiac fields. Jane—the consummate professional—finished the song then ran into the fields after her husband. When she found him, he continued accusing her of infidelity until she managed to convince him otherwise and they screwed right there in rows of soybeans.

He moved into her place. His video equipment crowded and nearly ousted her music equipment. Space in the small Chicago apartment was the crux of their Cold War—Keith acting like Reagan with his finger constantly on he Button and Jane acting as Gorbachev, desperate for some kind of peaceful and reasonable resolution.

Two weeks later, they were in therapy. The only discussion they could have without Keith’s demanding a therapist’s intervention was about what they’d have for dinner. It helped that Keith’s veganism limited their dining options. Keith was a volunteer for Greenpeace and convinced Jane to sell her 1967 Pontiac GTO. It was left to her in her grandfather’s will. It was her grandfather who taught her to play guitar and encouraged her to pursue a career in music. He was a sound tech for bands like the Byrds, Leslie Gore, the Lovin’ Spoonful and even the Beatles once. Anywhere she had to be, Keith told her, she could ride a bike, walk, run or use public transportation, if she must. And that inspired the second song on the album, “Red Meat Wishes and Gasoline Car Dreams.”

You’re sidewalk stalking Good people on God’s green earth I honk and rev my motor And slide back a Quarter Pounder

Still, Jane loved him. But what Jane loved more than Keith was love itself. Though she was never far from her friends or family and had an incredible bond and unwavering trust with her bandmates, Jane feared being alone. Alone in that romantic sense. It was that fear that empowered her to stay with Keith, which left her otherwise powerless. And that’s where “Distracted by Loneliness,” the album’s third song, came from.

Covered in hearts Well wishes from friends and family Their undying love can’t compare to the misery you give to me I’d rather be lonely with you than never alone again

✶

WHEN THEY RETURN FROM THE BREAK, JANE PLAYS “ONWARD.” Fat Host cues up another recorded caller and the conversation they had with her during the break.

“Hi, Jane. I’m Claire. I think you are so talented.”

“Hi, Claire. Thank you.”

“I just broke up with my boyfriend of three years.”

“This ought to be good,” Fat Host says.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Claire,” Jane says.

“No, please, it’s for the best. I was miserable. We both were. Your album inspired me to leave him. Funny thing was, it was his record. He bought the album.”

“Men love her, too,” Thin Host says. “Is there a song you’d like Jane Hadley to play?”

“I’d love to hear ‘Two Week’s Notice,’” says Claire. “I quit my job last week, too. This song inspired me to do that.”

“This song isn’t about quitting a job,” Jane says. “It’s about the abortion I had.” The studio goes quiet—never a good thing in radio. Jane recognizes the silence and quickly readjusts her response. “But, uh, sure thing, Claire. Let me know if you need a reference or anything.”

The recording ends and Lady Host throws her finger at Jane like a stage manager would on the set of a live news show. Jane plays the first chord and sings “Two Week’s Notice.”

It’s not something I am ready for I’m sure neither are you I’ve already got a child I can’t raise two It makes no sense to drag this out It’s the right thing to do I’ve already got a child That child is you

“I’m not really sure how that song would inspire someone to quit their job,” Thin Host says when Jane is done playing. “I bet you get a lot of that. You know, people mistaking the intentions of your songs for something else.”

“Like we were saying earlier, that’s what happens with music and art,” Jane says. “People listen to music in different ways. Claire, I guess, doesn’t listen to the lyrics all that closely. And that’s fine. I just hope she find a new job soon and lands on her feet.”

“Guess you can’t judge a song by its title,” Fat Host says.

“We’re going to take another quick break and we’ll be right back with more music by request from our in-studio guest Jane Hadley, who is performing at Decker Hall tonight and we’ll be giving away that pair of tickets to see her. You’re listening to the Manic Morning Show on 97.1 K–WOW.”

There it is, the missing piece to Jane and Keith’s old fight, his calm condescension. Finding herself in familiar territory, she habitually lights a cigarette in her mouth.

They never take calls live on-air. It’s a recipe for disaster. You could get a Baba Booey or a suicide or someone who just wants to yell “Fuck” on the radio. Answering calls off-air lets the hosts screen and edit the calls for the best possible radio. Fat Host takes the next caller.

“Hi, Jane. Since you’re single, maybe we can hook up after your show tonight. I’m hung.”

Fat Host immediately hangs up on the caller.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Jane says. “Maybe he was cute.”

She’s joking but only a little bit. Among the whiskey and cigarettes, her after-show parties have been filled with men. Lots of men. At least one every night. The show in L.A. had two, the one in Salt Lake had three.

Two more calls, both women, both requesting “Onward.” The third call is a man.

“97.1, Manic Morning Show,” Lady Host says.

“Jane?” the caller asks like he was calling Jane directly and not a San Francisco morning radio show.

“Hi, do you have a request for Jane Hadley?” Lady Host tries again.

“Jane. Are you there?”

“Okay, weirdo, goodbye,” Lady Host says as she signals Fat Host to drop the call.

“Wait,” Jane says. Lady Host looks at Thin Host who nods as a sign to let Jane play this one out. “Keith?”

The three hosts look at each other with confusion before Thin Host chimes in, “Jane, you’ve got a friend here in San Francisco. And a K-WOW listener to boot!”

“Keith is my ex-husband.” The three hosts drop their jaws and sit back in their chairs like they’re ready to watch the unbelievable, certain shit show commence. “Keith, what are you doing?”

“I was listening to the radio and heard you.”

“What are you doing in San Francisco?”

“I’m living with my brother.”

“You have a brother?”

“I have three brothers.”

“Three!? Why didn’t you ever say anything? Why weren’t they at the wedding?”

“My family is complicated.”

Jane is stunned. She, too, is now sitting with her mouth agape in disbelief. “So you’re living here now?”

“For the moment. There was a job, so…”

“What’s the job?”

“It’s a documentary about San Francisco suicides that don’t take place on the Golden Gate. There’s a large population of suicidals that is overlooked because of the attention that the Bridge gets. It’s tragic. And these people aren’t even polluting the bay when they kill themselves. It’s an important topic.”

Thin Host jumps in again. “So, Keith—Keith, right?—would you like to hear a song by Jane Hadley?” Jane shoots Thin Host a look that says, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Let’s hear that one about abortion again.”

Jane cringes. She is no longer stunned, now she’s pissed. Of course she never told him about the pregnancy. By their third date, it was clear that he had baby fever. Because Keith had such a foul and complicated relationship with his own family, he was desperate to build a new one. And though Jane wasn’t opposed to being a parent someday, she was in no immediate rush, but also knew, deep in her gut, that Keith would make a terrible father. That having a child would provide him with another person to manipulate and break down until nothing was left but a desiccated husk of a human. He would do to his child what his parents did to him and what he had nearly done to Jane.

Jane and the hosts are frozen but the digital phone recorder rolls along.

“Can I hear it? Can I hear the song about you killing my child?”

“Whoa!” Thin Host says as Fat Host laughs in shock.

“She didn’t kill your child,” Lady Host says. “She’s the mother and she has the right to make any decision she wants related to her body.”

“I agree,” Keith says. “But in the interest of true sexual and gender fairness and whatever, doesn’t the father have a right to know and at least be part of the discussion? When were you pregnant, Jane? Were we married? Because if so, then you absolutely owed me that.”

Lady Host defends her. “She doesn’t owe you anything.”

“No, he’s right,” Jane says. “I probably should have said something. I agonized over telling you about it for two weeks before.”

“Oh, you agonized, did you? That was my child.”

She can hear his special brand of angry panic in his voice. She knows she should have the deejays hang up. But that anger and panic of his was always delicious bait to her. She can’t help herself from engaging. “It wasn’t a child, Keith. And if it had been, it would have been ours. And that, that right there is why I didn’t tell you. I mean, I knew I couldn’t keep it because of your selfishness and controlling impulses. I would have had the abortion twenty minutes after I peed on the stick but I held off, debating if you should be there with me. But I knew that you’d never agree to it and that the idea of it would only lead to this.”

“And what’s this?”

“You accusing me of killing your child.”

Thin Host speaks up. “So Keith, what do you think about the rest of the album?”

“I didn’t know she could play electric guitar.”

There it is, the missing piece to Jane and Keith’s old fight, his calm condescension. Finding herself in familiar territory, she habitually lights a cigarette in her mouth.

“Uh, Jane, you can’t smoke that in here,” Fat Host says.

She exhales a large cloud of smoke emphasizing it with two small rings at the end. “I’ll make you a deal,” she says, “you promise not to air this and I’ll put it out.”

“It’s just that, well, it’s a federal regulation that you can’t smoke inside of buildings. It’s nothing personal. Hell, we all smoke,” Fat Host says.

“Promise me.”

Fat Host looks at Lady Host and Thin Host. Thin Host nods and fat Host says, “Promise.” Jane snuffs the cigarette out on the bottom of her boot. She walks to the small trashcan across the studio, drops the cigarette in and pours a few ounces of coffee on it for safety. She returns back to her microphone and puts her headphones back on.

“What do you want, Keith?” she asks.

Silence.

“Keith? Are you still with us, Keith?” Thin Host asks.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“What is it you want, Keith?” Thin Host asks again as if Jane’s voice was the problem the first time.

“I want you back,” Keith says.

Jane bursts out in laughter. “Are you fucking kidding me!?” The hosts are shocked. “Sorry,” she says to them.

“It’s okay, we’re not live,” Lady Host says. She leans over to Fat Host and whispers, “Bleep it out.”

“Duh,” Fat Host whispers back.

“I’ve missed you and I have a new therapist out here who says that I’m ready to be in a relationship with you again.”

“Then sue your therapist for malpractice,” Jane says, “because he’s a fucking quack.”

Fat Host holds up his arm to grab attention and says, “We are coming out of break.” He turns on his microphone, does a quick station I.D. and lets the audience know that Jane Hadley is in the studio and that they’ll be back with more from her, then plays music. As he finishes and the red ON-AIR light outside of the studio door turns off, Gavin, Jane’s tour manager storms in.

“I think we’re done here,” he says. Everyone ignores him. This is something he’s used to so he shrinks back out of the studio.

“Jane, I—”

“Shut up, Keith. It’s not happening. But I’ll put your name on the will call list at the door tonight if you want to come see the show.” She looks at Fat Host. “Hang up on him.”

Fat Host again looks around at his co-hosts for a confirmation. They both deny her request. Jane sees this and as Keith begins pleading to her in a breathy panic, she stands up, throws her headphones on the console, walks around to the control board where Fat Host is sitting and rummages around with her eyes for the phone. “Hang up. Where is it? Hang up on him. There’s nothing more to say.” Fat Host uses his bulk to keep her away. “Okay then, I guess you don’t want those backstage tickets to my sold out show tonight for your listeners. I guess you’d rather fuck with me than keep a promise to your listeners. Fine then.”

She walks back around to her guitar and coffee, puts the guitar in its case, throws the nearly empty coffee cup into the trashcan. She lights another cigarette before storming out of the studio, the station, and into the parking lot where Gavin is waiting.

“I need a drink,” she says.

It’s barely past six-thirty in the morning so Gavin suggests hotel room service. Jane agrees. She admits that after a few mini bottles of Dewar’s and Tanqueray she’ll be ready for a nap.

✶

IN THE HOTEL ROOM, GAVIN SLEEPS IN THE DESK CHAIR WITH HIS FEET PROPPED UP ON THE DESK, a small bottle of gin delicately rests in his curved fingers of his dangling arm. It’s eight-thirty and Jane lays drunk in bed. She’s tuned the nightstand clock radio to 97.1 FM, K–WOW. The idiots are playing the phone call with Keith. They’ve bleeped out her cursing. They’ve edited it to make her seem more erratic than she thought she had been. She’s pissed about it but she knows that this is only going to help her reputation and lead to more album and concert ticket sales.

She fumbles for her phone and calls Keith. After recording Hell in a Handbasket, Jane set out to remove any traces of him from her life. She built a fire in the alley behind her apartment next to the dumpster burning anything associated with their time together. Photos, a pair of his socks she loved to sleep in, the Dandelions t-shirt she bought at the show the night they met, that stupid crystal duck he gave to her on their first Christmas together. She never understood the significance of it. He was so excited to give it to her, so proud of himself that she never bothered to ask him why he thought she might like it. Of course, the crystal duck didn’t burn, so Jane smashed it to pieces with a hammer. The one thing she didn’t do during her Keith purge was delete his contact information from her phone. He answered her call before the first ring finished.

“Come to the show tonight,” she says to him.

“Do you want to get back together?”

“No. But I want to see you. Actually, if you can, come to my hotel right now. I’ll text you the address.”

She hangs up before he can respond and sends the text. She knows she has made a destructive decision and that there is no way any of this will end well. But that’s not what Jane wants. Keith has reopened her wounds as easily as if they’d never healed at all. Jane wants to bask in the familiarity of the disrespect and jealousy and anger that defined their relationship. One more chug of the poison, she tells herself, then she’ll be done. She’ll even delete him from her phone.

Keith texts back that he’s on his way. Jane wakes Gavin up and kicks him out of her room.

“You called Keith, didn’t you?” Gavin asks.

“I’ll see you later,” she says, closing the door in his face.

She picks up her guitar and writes a new song. It comes to her as easily as “Onward” did. Maybe even easier. She realizes that Keith is her muse. The thought of that is a good reason to open another mini bottle of whiskey. Maybe she won’t delete him from her phone. Just in case her creativity ever runs dry.

This is not the type of musician or person she thought she’d be but it’s the one the music industry needs, the one her generation needs—whatever generation that is. And certainly, it is the one she needs to be in order to remain being anything at all.

#Chicago Fiction #David Himmel Fiction #Rock Music Fiction

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bi-gothic · 3 years

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Ask game!

Tagged by @gendergenius 💜

Name/nickname: Josh

Gender: tbh I have been questioning this myself recently but I guess for now we'll say nonbinary man? Idk check back in a month or so it might be different lmao

Star sign: Cancer

Height: like 5'7" or 5'8", not too sure tbh

Birthday: July 2nd 1998

Fave bands/musicians: The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Twilight Sad, Death Cab for Cutie, God is an Astronaut, David Bowie, Violet Vendetta

Song stuck in my head: Close to me (Closer mix), but specifically there's a live version and I have the guitar solo from that looping for some reason

Last movie seen: I haven't watched much of anything in a while tbh but I think maybe it was Ponyo

Last show: hm I'm honestly not sure, I watched like half of the new David Attenborough thing recently, perfect planet or something like that?

When I created this blog: probably like 2018/19 I guess. Pretty recently that's for sure but the time blends together so wonderfully

Last thing I googled: PhD funding methods (riveting stuff I know)

Other blogs: none, although I considered making a d&d sideblog to journal the dumb stuff my players do. I know I'd just leave it to moulder though..

Do I get asks: not at all lmao

Following: I think about 100? Thereabouts anyway

Instruments: guitar (just about)

Why I chose this url: I'm not particularly original (also I tried like 4 others and they were all taken so..)

Nationality: sorry to report that I'm English :'(

Average hours of sleep: p good recently, I've gotten it up to about 6/7!

Lucky number: 7 is a nice shape I suppose :)

What I'm wearing: black shirt with the collar popped and one too many buttons undone bc I'm a fashion icon lmao

Dream trip: ooh idk how to answer this one bc once I saw a photo of a lady looking out of like a stone window across a canopy, and I've never been able to find the picture again but it perfectly represents where I would like to go lol

Favourite food: an impossible task but I'm a big fan of ice cream of all (well, most) varieties

Favourite song: right this second its I'll say goodnight by Roger O'Donnell and Jennifer Pague

Top 3 fictional universes I'd like to live in: Whatever Raymond Feist was doing with Magician (and the rest of those books), Gormenghast (even though I think it'd actually be an awful place to live I'm obsessed with the stylings of it all), Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea

Thank you so much for tagging me! It's been a hot second since I did one of these lmao. I never bother tagging people with these things so that's that!

#long post #thanks again for the tag!!

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radishcard55 · 3 years

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Best Love Tarot Card Cards Analysis Online Free & Accurate

Both a free tarot card analysis and also a psychic reading can provide something distinct and also important. If you're not thrilled with the idea of a in person conversation and also you don't like the task of trying to kind rapidly in an on the internet chat session, the good old telephone is a excellent standby. The tone can be casual or intimate, depending on the psychic you choose after reading their bio. Lots of believe that tarot card reviewing originated from old Egypt. For beginner readers, Howe recommends two standard spreads, a three-card pull as well as the Celtic Cross. The former is where 3 cards are drawn from the deck to stand for the past, present, and future or mind, body, and also spirit of the person reading. Howe says you can even up the ante to a six-card pull, with one card standing for each location. 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She's been a tarot card reader for twenty years and has a following of over 1.5 K subscribers on her YouTube Network. Her rate of interest began when she obtained a analysis at 19 from a tiny shop in midtown Provincetown, Massachusetts. They additionally assist consumers locate their way via psychic services, astrology, fortune-telling, dream analysis, as well as assessments on love, connections, professions, as well as financing. When life gets active and also begins really feeling a little bit uncontrollable, that's most likely when you require a tarot reading from Keen.com the most. And thanks to their low-cost prices (10 minutes for just $1.99), you can try among their gifted psychics without investing an arm and a leg. If you want the most effective tarot card analyses, the least expensive rates, and also free mins, right here are my top referrals. 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As I am a go-big or go-home kind of woman, I do not make use of simply one deck. On any type of given day I have 10 to twenty decks of different cards mixed in the spread I make use of in my work. The cards you will certainly locate in my stack variety from rule cards and also spirit pet cards, to siren cards as well as standard Rider-Waite style decks. I such as to maintain points fascinating as well as it's fun to have a dynamic combination of messages and also photos. I have always been taught that the cards you have actually chosen from the deck return into the boxface-up on top of the pile of cards, while the remainder of the deck staysface-down in package. Repeat this method every time you do a analysis on your own or others. Some of the cards in the tarot card deck are rather difficult to obtain in a analysis, nevertheless, don't fear them, they are merely a reflection of existing impacts and often have a positive side to them. Lots of free tarot analyses are based upon an auto-generated script. These sessions will certainly not be special to you or your scenario, so they'll lack the nuance, detail, as well as personal understanding you desire. Established in 1989, Psychic Resource has been around for greater than thirty years, making it the oldest company to make our checklist of vetted on the internet psychics. For nine years I've been working with tarot cards, and also as a tall, blond lady that hates cats and would wear white every day if she could, I hardly fit the Craft-ean stereotype in all. This is the 2nd time that my little girl as well as I have had readings with Shilpa. We truly appreciate her friendly and caring individuality and likewise her exact readings. This time we were a group of 4 ladies celebrating my child's Birthday celebration. Once the free mins are up, you'll have the option to continue the reading at a reduced rate. 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It's often a prompt to reflect on your life's broader lessons and also general themes. In the late 16th and also very early 17th centuries, tarot was a simple party game. By checking out our overview as well as viewing the profiles on the sites, you can look for a psychic with considerable experience with tarot card cards and also the particular subject of your concern. Wherever you have a laptop computer, tablet computer, or mobile phone and also some downtime to concentrate on you, you can obtain a tarot card analysis. When looking for in-person tarot card readings, you're limited by your location. Online, you have a vast range of visitors to choose from throughout the USA or all over the world. JOURNAL YOUR TAROT READING Log your tarot readings in your journal. Add your own notes and also inquiries to all of your tarot analyses. I am a large follower of having coaches as well as finding out techniques from others and after that making it my own. Take what offers you and also leave the rest behind-- we all absorb user-friendly details in different means. I would certainly constantly advise that you get tarot readings from a expert as well as discover what their procedure involves. After I have actually jazzed up the deck, I wage the type of instinctive reading that I offer my clients. You don't have to invest a lot of cash to obtain a psychic analysis. Actually, you can get started with free psychic analyses online making use of several various choices. Like a horoscope analysis, an astrology analysis will certainly make use of details regarding your exact birth date, consisting of the moment you were born and the location of your birth, to plot a birth graph. This graph utilizes numerous holy factors to identify their result on your life, including your past, existing, as well as potential future. Whether you're wed, in a connection, or searching for your soulmate, love readings can answer deep as well as intimate concerns about your existing, future, as well as also your past.

The minor arcana consists of 4 suits, similar to typical playing cards. These tarot cards take care of events of our daily lives, though they're anything yet boring. The circumstances connected with these tarot cards may have memorable impacts. The website uses a range of solutions in addition to checking out tarot. Some decks exist primarily as artwork, and such art decks often include only the 22 significant arcana. A really casual description of guidelines for a tarot-like deck is given in a manuscript by Martiano da Tortona prior to 1425. Obscure descriptions of video game play or video game terms adhere to for the following two centuries till the earliest well-known full description of rules for a French variation in 1637. Tarocchini has survived in Bologna and also there are still others played in Piedmont as well as Sicily, however in Italy the game is generally less preferred than elsewhere. The job of Eden Gray and others in the 1960s caused an surge of appeal in tarot card analysis beginning in 1969. Tarot card analysis rapidly came to be related to New Age believed, indicated partly by the popularity of David Palladini's Rider-Waite-Smith-inspired Aquarian Tarot, initially released in 1968. A psychic reading, on the other hand, will certainly use the psychic's gift of clairvoyance to acquire and connect details.

#tarot reading #tarot card reading

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