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mittensmorgul · 3 years

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For anyone interested in long-term residence in the supernatural fandom, please have some observations I’ve made over the decade I’ve been here. Take it or leave it as you will, but I’ve found all of this info useful over the years I’ve been here.

I wrote this yesterday, and it achieved its mission of identifying the sort of folks who would react negatively to it (i.e. a lot of block lists have been updated), so now that it’s been edited for content, it’s going under a cut (because that is how we do things on tumblr in general, unless we have a deliberate purpose for annoying readers with excessively long text posts) for the sake of people who actually do care about the fandom and its history. If that’s not you or your reason for being here, then keep on keeping on with your own thing, I guess. For those who are interested, there’s a lot of fandom resources some of us have been building for years that you might enjoy knowing about.

First off, I’ve been informed by a few friends who’ve read through this for coherency’s sake that it sort of reads like a *shakes cane from porch* fandom grandma complaint, but honestly... I earned this rocking chair and goshdangit imma rock now. So apologies for any “back in my day” vibes or faint aroma of tiger balm this post might give off. Then again, it’s loosely based on a similar post from 2012 so like... time is a flat circle anyway I guess.

1. There is no such thing as “tumblr famous,” unless you’re referring to the hilarious and delightful fic of the same name (please go read it, you will cackle). Posting Hot Takes for imaginary Clout™ on this site is kind of pointless in the long run. Sure you can post solely for the sake of stirring shit and getting notes, but the majority of the folks who do aren’t long term residents of the fandom. They’re just tourists moving through our little beach town for spring break. If you’re actually intent on moving to this corner of the fandom for an extended stay, please bother to really feel out the permanent residents and understand the culture and general mood of the neighborhood. It bears no resemblance to whatever’s going on across town where all the bars and beach parities are happening, and those loud, drunken revelers are, again, gonna disappear back to their regular lives or on to the next party eventually. That doesn’t mean the fandom is dying, it’s just evolving.

(funny how I had several comments implying that I’m just trying to keep the fandom from evolving with this post, because I sincerely do want the fandom to continue on for years to come, and that is impossible without evolution. We can evolve without self-immolating, though. mostly i included point 1 for an excuse to push ancient but hilarious fanfic on you.)

2. Once you post something here, it’s been unleashed to the fandom winds. You never know where it will end up, or who will comment on it or add to it. Remember that time Misha tweeted the link to the Epic Cockles Love Story post? No? It was wild. That was 2012. They all know we’re here, and how to find us if they want to. Please don’t take it to their doorsteps.

Obviously if someone is being a dick on your posts, please feel free to block them, but the whole entire point of this site is to engage people with your posts. Being big mad that someone reblogged your post with comments or supporting evidence, or happy headcanons or “HECK THIS IS GREAT BECAUSE (insert personal story about their experience or whatever else made them Feel Things about your post)” is frankly ridiculous. If your goal is to avoid any sort of engagement with your posts, then maybe try instagram instead. From what I understand, there is a SPN fandom presence there, and nobody can tarnish your original posts with unwanted commentary. But the ability to reblog with additional commentary is a FEATURE of tumblr that builds community through conversation. Otherwise we’re all just talking to ourselves in a vacuum, and that’s what actually kills fandoms.

(and for the folks who just want to blog how they want to blog and don’t want people to engage on their posts at all, please feel free to block anyone you want, as well... nobody wants to step on your toes, but most of us also don’t want to walk on eggshells wondering if this post is one of the “do not add comments for any reason” sorts of posts, either. This is a huge fandom and most people can’t even begin to keep track of every creator and their url du jour, and what their personal rules might be regarding interaction with their content. Including a “please don’t add comments” note at the bottom of your posts-- and not in your tags that won’t even show up on reblogs, but in the actual body of the post-- would sincerely help avoid any awkward or unwanted interactions, too. At the end of the day, you are in control of your own fandom experience and the block button exists.

For the record, I block zero fandom blogs (which is why I posted this, I wanted it to reach a wide scope... refer to the opening paragraphs as to why).

3. Since this post was partly inspired by a tag I left on that post going around about how “previous tags” mean fuckall on this site (which you can read here), just a reminder that if you like someone’s tags or feel they add value to the post, part of the Peer Review structure of tumblr encourages you to PASTE THEM INTO A REBLOG. If you do this, then at least credit the person who actually wrote the tags! Don’t just copy someone else’s tags into your tags on your reblog of the post without credit either. They were not YOUR tags. (I have had this happen to tag rambles I wrote and someone else got credited with them on a subsequent reblog and it is FRUSTRATING). Just... don’t even bother to write “previous tags” because WHAT PREVIOUS TAGS?! Nobody is gonna bother to chase back the chain of reblogs trying to find where the mystery tags came from, friendos. That way lies madness.

(for the record, since some folks seemed to focus on this point solely, writing “previous tags” on a post isn’t inherently a BAD thing, but for anyone who actually is here for more than one-off shitposting, then it’s sort of a pointless thing in the long run. This wasn’t intended to suggest people who ARE here for one-off shitposting are bad or “doing it wrong,” but for people who might actually want to preserve that hilarious joke or insightful comment. People delete posts and entire blogs all the time around here. Links break. I get that the upcoming generation just shrugs at that and moves on with their lives, but heck... you don’t have to accept that all entertainment is disposable if you don’t want to. There’s a bizarre sort of nihilism plaguing us all about the impermanence of pretty much everything that feels like something we should be fighting against rather than buying into wholesale, even in our escapist entertainment. I’m just exhausted by the complete loss of joy in community.

*shouts from the peanut gallery* IT AIN’T THAT DEEP, JUST GET SOME FRESH AIR AND LOOK AT A PUPPY OR SOMETHING

Yes... yes it isn’t really that deep, but bigger picture in the state of reality we’re all entirely disillusioned with, are we supposed to just give up on everything, including the things we cling to because they bring us a tiny spark of hope that we’re not all just trapped in this dystopian nightmare and things might actually be worth living for?

*peanut gallery clinging to burnt husks of peanuts in a barren peanut field* but this is how we have chosen to cope

Okay... you do you... I feel bad for you but if that’s the case then this post is NOT FOR YOU. AND THAT’S FINE. I honestly do not care if you don’t care! I mean, I’m sorry anyone has to live in a world that drives them to that mindset, but I understand. This post is for anyone who might look at their lives and their choices and think “no wait, I unironically enjoy this and want more from the experience of that enjoyment than I’m currently feeling.” Everyone else can continue with their lives as usual.)

4. CONTENT THEFT IS NEVER OKAY. PERIOD. Things like “credit to the artist” or tagging gifs or images you found on pinterest as “not mine” isn’t actually credit. If you can’t source an image or gif set, DO NOT POST IT! We don’t REPOST (i.e. save an image and then create a new post with it as if it was our own creation). We REBLOG (click the little square arrows and reblog from the actual creator). That goes for gif sets, fanvids, screencaps, meta, fic... everything.

(hopefully everyone here already understands this one, but I felt compelled to include some “these are stupidly obvious” reminders anyway, since this is ostensibly some sort of advice column. This is the equivalent of the warning label on your toaster reminding you not to use it in the bath. Like... duh...)

5. Close kin of item 4 is SOURCE YOUR SHIT.

(for 100% disclosure purposes, I specifically discussed this one in this specific way because of an influx of anon ask messages I received in the wake of the finale. Literally the inciting incident for creating this entire post was what I can only assume was a joking ask about a comment Misha made at a con years ago. Someone actually bothered to take the time to type out those sentences to me. I have no idea what they were expecting in reply, or what could possibly motivate them to send this comment about something so entirely random from, again, several years ago. Just a joke? No idea, but whatever... it got me thinking that there might actually be people who are new to the fandom who MIGHT actually care about the fandom history, and maybe they just don’t know where to go for that info, or how to even begin searching through 16 years of history for things they might actually find enjoyment in, rather than just hauling random out of context garbage out on main and pointing and laughing about it now. People are actually allowed to care about things. It’s not cringeworthy to actually care about things, and you are not alone in actually caring, and there’s this whole big room over here full of people who are thrilled to share in that with you. This post is intended FOR THOSE PEOPLE SPECIFICALLY, so if that is not you, please just continue walking by.)

Yes, I know lots of y’all are new around here right now, but dredging up stuff from years ago that fandom has completely debunked and presenting it as TRU FAX again is just exhausting. We’re not trying to be party poopers, but seriously, we have seen it all and are mostly done with extinguishing bags of flaming dog poop on our front porches for the umpteenth year in a row. I’ve seen a lot of posts that have the same tone as “I saw Goody Proctor dancing with the devil” or “I heard kylo ren has an eight pack” and just... the information is there for anyone who cares enough to find it.

This goes double for “why is nobody talking about this thing I just discovered while watching the show for the first time?!” And, oh hon, we have talked it all into the ground over the last fifteen years. We’re happy you’re discovering it again, but I promise we talked about it plenty when the episodes originally aired. We have such a rich meta history that lots of us have worked really hard to preserve. I encourage you to seek it out, if nothing else than as historical artifacts. The way we have discussed the show has been a 16-year evolution. People have written literal doctoral dissertations on this show. Your shitposts are fun! We love reliving our own experience through fresh eyes, and seeing your wonder at experiencing it all again for the first time! But y’all didn’t invent this fandom in the last six months, either.

Meta Sources and Minerals provided by our friendly neighborhood fandom archivist, @lets-steal-an-archive

Academic books and articles about SPN

A collection of Meta Essays going back to s1 and organized by topic (all of this has happened before, all of it will happen again)

SPN Heavy Meta Archive (s1-3)

Mel’s Dreamwidth archive of meta (s1-12)

Oranges8hands Dreamwidth archive of meta (s1-15, with many similar entries to Mel’s... though ymmv on viewpoint in a lot of these too)

Anyone remember Fandom Wank? Not the concept but the actual LJ... No? Okay have a link to SPN topics that ended up there. Through 2013. We have seen so much... including several fandom containment breaches.

for all your art sourcing needs, please see @theroadsofararchive, the repository for so much fandom art.

need to find a gif of something? canonspngifs is a vast repository of gifsets of the entire series. If the gif you want to use in your post happens to be the first gif in the gifset, in the tumblr gif finder thingy just paste the permalink to that post from canonspngifs (which is easily searchable by episode, character, location, situation, quotes, and sometimes even color and clothing items the actors are wearing... it’s really well organized, especially for tumblr >.>) and the first gif will be automatically linked with credit to the gif creator attached. It makes life easy that way. It’s also convenient when trying to remember something specific but can’t remember what episode it’s from. I’ve used the site to jog my memory before going to the superwiki armed with more specific search results to find episode quotes and references. Or sometimes I just scroll through all the nice gifs for fun, too.

Need a screencap of something and know exactly which episode it’s from? Try Home of the Nutty. You might not find the exact screencap you’re looking for, but they have a complete set of caps of every episode, and it’s an incredibly useful resource for quick reference checks and the like. Just give pages a chance to fully load before clicking on the next one. The site is easily overloaded, but it’s still free to use (and again, with credit... Pretty much every screencap on my entire blog is from HotN unless otherwise credited).

As you can see, this is a fandom built on preserving our history. You absolutely are not required to engage with any of this if that’s not of interest to you, but I can only assume that there are people who would be interested in it if only they knew it existed and how to find it. Well, now they do.

6. A few more notes on tags, and how they work on tumblr. The first 20 tags on your ORIGINAL posts are searchable sitewide, so if you want to be able to find something again, tag that thing first before going on general tag rambles. The only place tags on reblogs are searchable is on your own blog. So you don’t have to put 50 tags trying to get a post seen if it’s a reblog. You’re just spitting into the wind at that point. If you have a filing system for finding things again, then by all means add those tags (again, in the first 20, so they’re searchable), but you don’t need to tag a reblog “destiel” and “deancas” and “dean” and “cas” and “dean x cas” or whatever. Pick one for your personal blog’s filing system, that’s all you need.

(this was only added because tagging and searching on this site is so very broken... I get that a lot of folks don’t care about ever searching their own blogs again for anything, so this one only really applies if you do often find yourself trying to find old posts. If not, then it’s not really relevant. It took me years to work out a decent tagging system, and at the beginning of my time here I never thought I’d end up camping out here for a decade and falling this deep into the fandom, and I regretted my lack of consistent tags only years later when I realized I actually wanted to be able to go back and find specific old posts again. So... for anyone who wants to err on the side of caution, working out a sensible tagging system really helps if you’re here for the long term. I personally tag content by episode, because some of my other general tags are so large as to be practically useless as a search term. But whatever system you choose to file stuff on your own blog, it really only has to make sense to you. And again, if this is pointless advice for someone who has no intention of settling here for the long term. Please feel free to ignore it. I just wish someone had explained it this way to me ten years ago and saved me the hassle of retroactively tagging something like 30k posts... especially now that using the mass tag replacer is the fastest way to get your entire blog deleted... oops? so yeah, don’t use the mass tag replacer either >.>)

7. Tags on Tumblr DO NOT WORK LIKE TAGS ON TWITTER. If you @ someone in the body of the post, it will show up in their notifications (if they’re the sort of person who even checks their notifications... not all of us do. For the record, I generally don’t...), but putting actor or ship names in the tags on a tumblr post does absolutely nothing. It’s not the same as tagging the actor’s twitter account in a tweet. Nobody’s getting notifications about you tagging a post about Jensen here as “Jensen Ackles.” There is a difference. Please learn it. (and don’t take headcanons and ESPECIALLY RPF or otherwise explicit art or fic from tumblr to twitter and tag the actors in it. That’s just... not okay.)

(I have seen the pearl clutchers getting all in a huff about the mere existence of RPF or even explicit content of fictional characters if it doesn’t meet their purity standards, but tagging those things allows people who don’t want to see it to actively avoid that content here. Nobody has a right to tell people their fictional content shouldn’t exist at all, or that creators of that fictional content somehow deserve harassment or threats for having dared to create such “immoral” content, won’t somebody PLEASE think of the children... and no... you do not do that here. Don’t be the problematic behavior you wish to ban from the world. Learn to use tags to protect yourself from, as i have attempted to emphasize here, fictional content you are personally upset by. That’s a you problem, not a problem for the creators of potentially upsetting content that they tag appropriately for.)

8. General formatting stuff: If you’re writing long text posts, visually break them up so people aren’t faced with one long wall of text. The enter key is your friend. Also, if you put long text posts under a Read More break and send people to your blog to finish reading, please ensure that your blog is actually visually accessible (tiny text, or light grey text on a dark grey background, or a visually busy background might be aesthetically pleasing to you but nobody can actually read it. Loads of folks won’t even try. Which is great if you don’t actually care whether people are able to appreciate your content or not, but something to at least consider if you *do* actively want to encourage engagement with your work. Confirm how your blog looks on both mobile and desktop and make sure it’s actually functional in both, too).

And since I mentioned that most of my experience on fandom tumblr has been in the SPN fandom, here’s a bit of a reminder for folks who are new around here. With the reminder that I have been here more than a decade and still feel like a newbie myself sometimes...

This is an OLD FANDOM. There are many, many people who have been at this longer than some of you have been alive. The average age for creators in this fandom is older than you think (I think of my friends in their 30′s as young’ins okay? okay). With that understood, you are responsible for the content you consume and are exposed to. Curate your experience. Ship and let ship. YKINMKATOK. Don’t deliberately expose yourself to content you find upsetting for whatever reason. Tags and warnings are your friends, not targets for you to attack in some sort of purity war. People will ship things you do not like (or in specific ways you do not like), will say things you do not agree with, and will find their happiness in things you abhor. That is not your concern. Find what you do like, and support and engage with it, and ignore (or block, or unfollow) the rest. Tumblr has a feature that lets you blacklist tags so the content you’re trying to avoid won’t appear on your dash.

Remember the paradox of tolerance.

It is not your job in fandom to police how other people enjoy the fandom. It’s not *my* job to police how *you* enjoy the fandom, UNLESS your enjoyment is in actively harming other real human beings in the fandom. If you don’t like their take on the character or the show or the plotlines or their ships or anything else, you don’t need to engage with their posts at all! The necessary corollary to this is that clarifying misunderstandings or correcting factual misinformation is not “policing.”

(this is where the peanut gallery reminds me it ain’t that deep, and I plead with them to put down the social media and find just one (1) thing to actually believe in in this godforsaken life, find something other than disdain and cynicism and spite to live for. If those things motivate you to find a larger cause for yourself, then great, use them to your advantage, but use them to find something that makes you a better person or brings you a modicum of joy and connection to your fellow human beings despite living in a dystopian hellscape of a world)

I have seen a lot of posts lately that are founded on the sort of authority that comes with “I watched through tumblr for a few months and then watched the last three episodes of the series” and as such are just... missing the larger context of the entire show, and are unfounded entirely in canon. I 100% appreciate the new enthusiasm for the fandom that we’ve been living in here for years, and it’s wonderful to see new people enjoying the thing we love. Your headcanons are valid, you are valid, but recognize that your headcanons aren’t canon. All of us finale denialists have accepted this in some measure, so we feel you. We truly, truly feel you. But regarding actual canon, we have a resource for that: the Superwiki. Learn it, live it, love it, as Metatron would say.

(which you could discover he said in 10.17 Inside Man, thanks to the superwiki! accept no substitutes!)

(and again, there have been people who have been involved in fandom for years who haven’t engaged with canon in years, either! You can play in this universe however you choose, BUT FOR PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY CARE ABOUT CANON AT ALL, WHICH I AM AGAIN POINTEDLY SAYING MIGHT NOT BE YOU, READER, AND I’M NOT SUGGESTING YOU ARE WRONG FOR NOT WANTING TO ACTUALLY ENGAGE WITH CANON, but if you DO want to engage with canon, please have some useful resources. Why do people feel personally attacked by being presented a list of helpful resources? Absolutely baffling.)

(also: words have definitions. “Canon” is a specific thing, meaning in this case “the finished media product that aired on television.” Anything beyond those limits is secondary canon (think: john’s journal, which is not canon but canon adjacent at best...), word of god (i.e stuff said by the writers and showrunners), or headcanon (which includes actor commentary-- they may have helped create the show with their acting choices and whatever, but they are not in control of the story overall). If there’s something you dislike about actual canon, you can reject it and supplement it with your own theories or preferred outcomes-- that’s basically what fanfic is-- but that doesn’t make your theories canon (much to all our dismay, that’s just not how any of this works. This is not to invalidate how anyone engages with the show or the fandom, just trying to clarify what seems to have been a source of unintentional misunderstandings. Your theories do not have to be “canon” to be legitimate interpretations.)

***I am setting this section apart, and did make a separate post of just this following information, because this is where we go from being relatively chill about different parts of fandom choosing to interact in different ways and you do you and blog however you want, to “hey can everybody please understand that the way you are interacting with this specific material might be harmful for specific legal reasons, and stating that you do not care about the consequences of your actions does actively make you the asshole here...” Okay, now that we have that understood:

The spnscripthunt collective has been steadily acquiring new scripts (which are posted in full on the superwiki for everyone to enjoy, for free). The language around how some folks are talking about these scripts is... concerning. For very real legal reasons, actually, and not because we’re feeling precious about the collection and don’t wike it when meanies use them in shitposts.

-First off, these scripts are not “leaks.” They are all verified and legally purchased (or gifted, in some cases, but still acquired entirely above board. we didn’t whack anyone over the head in a back alley for these scripts, or swipe them out of someone’s trailer on set).

(in case anyone was unaware, these scripts are the copywritten protected property of Warner Brothers. So yes, how we use them and share them with the fandom could have legal repercussions. We present them as a collected resource of fandom history which SHOULD fall under Fair Use doctrine, but this is untested legal water. Insinuating that the scripts are somehow not entirely legally obtained, or that posting them for public access involved less than 100% transparent and entirely legal transactions is incredibly concerning.

Once again for the peanut gallery, if you don’t care about any of that and are just having a good time with it, at least be mindful of the work and expense a large group of people have gone through to acquire and present the content you’re all too eager to exploit for cheap thrills. Some of us do actually care and are not exactly comfortable with the fact that others don’t seem to care about burning it all to the ground. We can’t force you to listen or behave as we’d hope you might, but at least be aware of the potential consequences of your actions. All we’re asking is for you to not be the douchebag who sets the whole neighborhood on fire with your illegal fireworks display. Is that too much to ask for? more on that in a second, first... a psa)

-If you see a script for sale and are unsure if it’s legit (or believe it might already be freely available in our collection), please feel free to ask us for advice. Our goal is to make as much of our fandom history available to the entire fandom, and we absolutely do not want anyone shelling out money for stuff you can already find for free.

(seriously, we’ve seen a bunch of resellers cropping up selling printed versions of the scripts we bought and uploaded for everyone to enjoy free of charge, or scripts that are otherwise of dubious origin. We’ve been at this for years now and know what’s actually out there. We don’t want anyone to fall for a scam if we can help it)

-Also, the usual reminder that the scripts we acquire ARE NOT NECESSARILY THE FINAL SHOOTING DRAFTS. In fact, the majority of scripts in our collection are NOT. Changes are made daily to scripts, even during filming. Comparing a Production Draft (white pages, effectively the first “final draft” of what usually becomes a series of drafts before filming wraps) to a much later revision (say... green or goldenrod revisions, several of which we DO have in our collection for comparison) and how those earlier drafts often differ wildly from the aired version versus how similar a much later green draft is to the aired version, for example, can teach you a lot about the television writing process. The link above to the superwiki scripts page has a nice little explainer about how this process works.

Differences between our posted scripts (many of which are white drafts, aka FIRST complete drafts, which will likely go through multiple rounds of revisions before filming even begins) and the aired version of the show are not all “acting choices” or a director or editor just cutting whole scenes on a whim. It’s insulting to everyone involved in production to suggest that’s the case.

(and yeah, fine... whatever, make any sort of posts you like regarding how those changes came about, but at the very least understand that it’s not actually the truth about how any of this works. Don’t care that that’s not the truth and want to make the posts anyway because shitposting is fun and that’s the extent of your sense of humor? FINE! You’re entitled to do that! But at least you DO know the truth now, and hopefully so do the people who engage with your posts. Deliberate ignorance isn’t cute, smooth lions notwithstanding)

There’s probably a whole other post to be made on fandom tagging etiquette, but again I don’t really use the tags enough to know what’s going on with that whole situation. I’ve also probably left a lot of stuff out, so please feel free to add things I’ve overlooked.

Thanks also to @trisscar368 and @thayerkerbasy for help compiling this, too. They were kind enough to escort me through the park to feed these pigeons. Now I need to take them out for ice cream. :’D

So I guess welcome to the neighborhood. Make yourself at home, but like... try not to trash the place while you’re here. Some of us live here by choice, lol.

#this blue hellsite (affectionate)#fandom problems #kinda wish i'd made this post six months ago but here we are i guess lol #long post #now edited for the people who are actually personally invested in the fandom #thanks for participating in this little experiment and I hope this version is actually informative to those who are interested #meaning there's a lot more links to stuff and explainers and whatnot...#and one last reminder that for folks just swinging through for laughs absolutely none of this applies to you #if you are legit interested in fandom history and preservation as we move to the post-canon world then hopefully this is useful to you

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phemonoi · 4 years

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The Thing About Myths — A Rant

This is a very complex topic. It is a topic I personally hate, and a topic that represents a barrier in the community. It is irritating, but it is necessary we address it.

Myths are interesting sources of inspiration. They are interesting types of literature and they are impactful in each culture, a big part of what makes a culture what it is. Myths come in many ways; they are narratives that can express any truth, idea, or value a certain society holds. And sometimes they tell us a great deal about the idiosyncrasy of a people, which is incredibly useful for historians and sociologists. Myths can also be fun, but sometimes they can become... a tedious topic. In a religious level, I have noticed, myths can be come a hindrance between the devotee and the divine.

In our path, myths are an important part of the history of our practices. Sometimes myths tells us about the way ancestors related to divinity, and the type of relationship they had. However, I must draw a line between myth as a form of exposition, and myth as a form of “truth”, to put it in some way.

Let me be more direct: people fear the Gods because of their myths. They resent the Gods because of their myths. They adore the Gods because of their myths. Or they outright disrespect the Gods, and their devotees, because of their myths.

A thing must be established very clearly right now: myths are not truth. Paganism is not known for being part of a tradition of “revelation”. The stories and the narratives we tell about our Gods, are ours. They’re not theirs. Anyone can write or rewrite a myth, and that doesn’t mean the thing they’re telling is a revelation from the Muses or a truth about the Gods. Mostly myths come from oral traditions, and they are deeply ingrained within the cultures that birth them; they change and evolve, they get adapted, their meaning and significance often changes as well. Myths are more cultural phenomena than religious revelation.

Let me put it another way. In our western cultural background, dominated by religions of revelation (the abrahamic tradition), we are accustomed to seeing people belonging to these religions argue about their beliefs in reference to their myths, or their books of revelations. We often see them quoting them, and retelling the stories told there with passion, taking them as guidelines in their relationship to the divine. This is completely fine for them because that’s part of their tradition; that’s their method, and it serves a purpose in their spiritual path. However, this does not happen in paganism.

Pagan religions do not have a book of revelations. In antiquity, the people who believed to hold absolute knowledge of the divine and preached it based on myths were mostly considered charlatans, or not taken very seriously. This is because in antiquity philosophy had the dominance over religious studies, and the philosophies available at the time considered myths to hold hidden meanings about the nature of the Gods. For example, Plotinus argued that one must not take myths in a literal way, but read them carefully and think about them metaphorically so that one could unlock the full meaning of their symbols, which often led towards a kind of platonic conclusion. Sallustius (a philosopher from the tradition of Julian, allegedly Julian himself) talks of myths as being important to our relationship with the Gods, but he doesn’t talk about that as myths being revelations, or prompting us to take everything a myth says as truth about the Gods. Sallustius was very well aware of the bad reputation myths give the Gods. They are rapists, thieves, cheaters, liars, and they often act cruelly and violently. However, because we worship the Gods, and that means being devoted to them, and that requires some level of loyalty and disposition towards them, then we must interpret these conflicting stories as more meaningful than just superficially immoral. Thus, the conflicting actions of the Gods in myths have been regarded as symbols of deeper ideas even before Plato, and even by the Stoics, and the Pythagoreans, and the Aristotelians, and what more. Even the Orphics themselves didn’t regard their myths as literal truth: one of the things one learned when being initiated was the “actual” interpretation of the superficial myth, which was more symbolic.

So this is the thing. Myths can illustrate philosophical ideas if we consider looking at them under the surface. Myths can tell us about a people’s specific values and customs depending on history. Myths can be enjoyable and fun. However, myths shouldn’t pose a conflict in our worship.

You can do as you please with myths. You can follow Plotinus’ advice and have them be symbolical. Or you can ignore them altogether, as I do (I acknowledge the importance of myth in the plotinian tradition, but I just find them entertaining and that’s it, I don’t have enough interest in them to study them further). Or, alright, you can believe the myths and the actions of the Gods there as true in the context of our path. But then... ask yourself one thing: why would you want to worship the Gods? If you take myths as a guiding tool in your practice, and you do believe Zeus is a rapist, and Athena is an unfair bitch, and Aphrodite is a vane whore, and anything else, then... what’s the point of you praying? What’s the point of you having an altar? What’s the point of you wanting to connect to the divine through the figures of these Gods?

I mean, okay, I concede you can avoid worshipping the deities that you find to be morally conflicting altogether. But trust me; you will find immoral stories about every deity. You say, “alright, I will avoid worshipping the rapist and instead worship Hades, who is not like Zeus.” Surprise. You will come accross a myth that tells something conflicting about Hades. I promise. I don’t know any (because as I said, I ignore myths), but I PROMISE there is one. And you then will have to go through the burden of reexamining your relationship with Hades, the ways in which you disaprove of his actions in said myth, and perhaps even come to end your worship. Is this the type of path you want to walk? A path of fearing the Gods, of avoiding them, of praying to them to “stay away” from you? Really?

OR you could just acknowledge that myths are not real. They are fiction. The Gods never commit the actions told there. Zeus never came down to earth in the form of rain to get Danae pregnant. Hera never actually made Heracles’ life impossible because of jealousy and rage. Aphrodite and Persephone never actually fought over Adonis. Apollo never really killed Orion or stalked Daphne. It didn’t happen. It couldn’t have happened, realistically speaking. So why do you believe it? Why do you choose to fear these Gods? You could simply take a myth and say, “well... this is bad. This does not align with my moral values. Good thing this is just a story rewritten by Ovid and not actual record of the activity of the Gods”.

Myths tells us more about ourselves than about the Gods. Do not put yourself in the burden of having to hate the Gods because of their actions in stories. Do not be so immature and absorbed by our culture’s arrogance and end up “cancelling” the Gods for things a man wrote 2000+ years ago based on traditional stories, thinking of poetry and art, and not of religion.

Stop fearing Zeus. Stop fearing Apollo. Stop fearing Hera and Athena. These Gods are much more than just figures that perform the worst acts of humanity. Give yourself the chance to have meaningful and loving relationships with them, and let others have that as well.

I hope this post serves its purpose.

#hellenic polytheism #hellenic paganism #hellenic pagan #hellenic polytheist #theoi #theoi worship #greek myths #greek mythology #mythology #greek gods #paganism #pagan #polytheism #neopaganism #hellenismos #dodekatheism

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writingwithcolor · 4 years

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Mixing North America with Old World Cultures in Fantasy: What Are The Issues?

So I sent in an ask several years ago that, due in no small part to your response, I have grown from and eventually led to a complete restructuring of my story. I included a measure of context in this, so if you need to skip it, my main three questions are at the bottom. I think this mostly applies to Mod Lesya.

The new setting is both inspired by and based on North America in the late 1400s where the indigenous cultures thrive and are major powers on the continent. Since there is no “Europe” in this setting the colonization and plague events never happened. Within the continent itself (since it is a fantasy setting) there are also analogous cultures that resemble Norse, Central European, Persian, Arabic, Indian, and Bengali. Although not native to the fantasy continent, there is also a high population of ‘African’ and ‘Oceanic’ peoples of many cultures, the latter usually limited to coastal cities as traders and sailors. Elves are entirely not-human, or at least evolved parallel to humans ala Neanderthals/Denisovans; they have green blood, black sclera, and skin tones that run from pale to dark.

The main national setting of the story takes great inspiration from a Byzantine/Turkish/Mississippian background, and the neighboring nations are based on the Haudenosee (Iriquois Confederacy), Numunuu (Comancheria), and the Hopi and Zuni (as the descendants of the Ancestral Puebloans) (I also know that 2 of these 3 occur much later than the 1400s, but I love the government systems and they provide excellent narrative foils for the more ‘traditional’ fantasy government that takes place in the story). The Maya inhabit the role analogous to Ancient Greece in that most writing systems on the continent descend from Maya script and all the Great Philosophers were Maya (and nobility from across the continent spend lots of money to send their children to schools in the Maya City-States or in the Triple Alliance (Aztec Empire)). There is magic with varying traditions, practices, and methods spread across the continent, some of which are kept secret from outsiders, so I would hope that this avoids the “Magical Native” trope.

Beyond the setting, I have three main questions:

When it comes to foodstuffs, I was originally planning to limit myself to Pre-Columbian cuisine from the Americas (eg the Three Sisters and potatoes) but in doing my research, Navajo fry-bread seems to be a fairly integral part of the food culture and that does require flour, which originated in the Old World. Would it be better to incorporate some of the Old World stuff that has since become traditional to indigenous groups?

For place names used in the setting and writing systems would it be better to use existing languages or writing systems or ones inspired by them? EG should I make a language that is very similar to Cherokee, complete with its own syllabary, or should I use IRL Cherokee and its extant syllabary? I ask because I feel like using the real language might step on some toes, but using the conlang might seem like erasure.

One of the main themes of this story is the harm that even a ‘benevolent’ Empire can wreak on people. The Byzantine/Turkish/Mississippian culture is the main Empire on the continent, taking cues from both western and American monarchical systems (eg the Triple Alliance (Aztec) and The Four Regions (the Inca Empire)), but when I think about it having any kind of even vaguely western ‘Empire’ spring up from the soil of a North American inspired setting might be troubling.

Thank you for your time and consideration! Do you guys have a kofi or something so I can compensate you for time spent?

I actually do remember you, and I am going to 99% disregard your questions here because you went from glaringly obvious racism to covert racism, and none of your questions ask if your basic strings of logic for assumptions you built into the setting are okay.

Since there is some extremely flawed basic logic in here, I’m going to tackle that first.

Question 1: Why did you originally title this “Pre Colombian North American Fantasy World” when you have more old world cultures than new world cultures?

A very simple, straightforward question. The actual content of the setting is what made me retitle it.

If you want to write a North American fantasy setting… why are there so many old world cultures represented here?

Old world: - Greece (as a societal myth; see next point) - Byzantine - Turkey - Norse - Central European - Persian - Arabic - Indian - Bengali - African (which, let’s be honest, should be heavily broken up into multiple peoples) - Oceana (which, again, should be heavily broken up into multiple peoples)

New world: - Mississippian - Iroquois - Numunuu - Hopi - Zuni - Maya - Aztec - Inca (maybe? not mentioned as having their own place on the continent, but one of your questions mentions them) - Navajo (maybe? See above)

To account for respecting Africa and Oceana, I’m going to make African cultures count as 3 and Oceanic cultures count as 5, and this is a purposeful lowball.

Old World: 17 New World: 9

It’s a giant discrepancy, especially if your attempt is writing an exclusively New World fantasy. And this is bare minimum old world, considering the fact I tried to limit myself to peoples who would be more likely to interact with the heavy Mediterranean/Alexander the Great’s Empire centricity.

Question 2: Why does there have to be a Greece analogue?

I haven’t spoken about this topic at length on this blog, but Greek worship in the Western world is a very carefully crafted white supremacy based mythos that was created to prop up European “Excellence” and actually erases the reality of Greece as a peoples.

Cultural evolutionism is a theory that states the (assumed-white-European) Greeks were superior because of their philosophy, their abstract art, and their mathematics. When many of these concepts were refined in Egypt (African, aka Black), or the Arab world (aka brown), but white Europeans did not want to admit any of this so they instead painted everything as coming out of their ideas of Greece lock stock and barrel.

The theory also ignored Iroquois science, Plains and Southwestern abstract art, and generally everything about North America, because the theory was designed to move the goalposts and paint North America as something it wasn’t, just to make Europeans feel okay taking it over and “bringing it to civilization.”

This theory was still taught in force up until the 1970s, and is still a major school of anthropological thought to this day (and still taught in some universities), so it is still very much influencing the Western world.

While the theory itself is only from the 1800s, it had long-growing roots in white/ noble Europe’s attempt to prop up European “Excellence” during its multiple periods of colonization, from the Crusades, onwards. You can see it in the copious amount of art produced during the Renaissance.

Europeans ignored the sheer amount of settling and travel that happened within Greece and Rome, and you’ll notice how many Renaissance paintings depict Greek philosophers as white, teaching other white people. In reality, we have no idea what their skin tone was, and they could have taught a huge variety of different skin tones. But it was appealing to European nobility to have people like them be the founders of all things great and “advanced”, so they invested huge amounts of time and money in creating this myth.

(Note: I said their nobility, not their population. People of colour existed en masse in Europe, but the nobility has been downplaying that for an exceptionally long time)

Greece took over most of the old world. It borrowed and stole from hundreds of cultures, brought it all back, and was assigned credit for it. White Europeans didn’t want to admit that the concept of 0 came from the Arabs, the pythagorean theorem came from Egypt, etc, and since Greece won, detailed records of how they were perceived and what they stole are long lost. It’s only glaring when they took from other global powers.

Question 3: Why would you pick totally different biomes to mix in here?

Turkey and the Mississippi are very, very different places when it comes to what can grow and what sort of housing is required, which makes them on the difficult side to merge together. They relied on different methods of trade, as well (boats vs roads), and generally just don’t line up.

The fact you pick such a specific European powerhouse—the Byzantine Empire—to mix into your “not European” fantasy world is… coming back to my above point about Greek (and Roman) worship in the West. Why can’t a fantasy world set in North America be enough on its own? Why does it need Europe copycats?

Question 4: Why are you missing a variety of nomads and Plains peoples?

Nomadic plains peoples were a thing across the globe, from the Cree to the Blackfoot to the Mongols. You have hyperfocused on settled peoples (with only one nomadic group named in both new and old world), which… comes across as very odd to me, because it is, again, very European sounding. That continent was about the only one without major populations that were nomadic, and if you look at European history, nomadic peoples were very highly demonized because of the aforementioned Mongols.

Cultural evolutionism also absolutely hated nomadic peoples, which is where we get the term “savage” (hunter-gatherers, nomads) and “barbarian” (horticulturalists and pastoralists, the latter nomadic); these were “lesser cultures” that needed to settle down and be brought to “civilization” (European agriculture), and nothing good could ever come out of them.

Meanwhile, in North America, nomadic peoples took up a very large portion of landmass, produced a huge amount of culture and cultural diffusion, and mostly ignoring them while trying to create a “fantasy North America” is, well, like I said: odd.

General Discussion Points

My suggestion for you is to write a fantasy Mediterranean region. Completely serious, here.

With the kinds of dynamics you are attracted to—the empires, the continental powers, the fact you keep trying to make Europe analogues in North America—you will do a much, much more respectful job by going into a really richly researched Mediterranean fantasy world than attempting to mix Europe and North America together in ways that show European traits (settled peoples, agriculture, a single empire dominating the whole culture and being viewed as superior) as the default.

I legitimately cannot see anything in here that feels like it comes from North America, or at the very least, treats non-sensationalized peoples (aka, those outside the Maya and Mississippian region) with respect.

It falls into Maya worship, which is a very sensationalized topic and is fuelled by racist fascination, assuming no Indigenous peoples could be that smart.

It falls into settled peoples worship, which is something that has cultural evolutionism roots because under such a model only settled peoples with agriculture are “civilized.”

It falls into placing Western concepts (public schools, large cities, the ilk) as the ideal, better solution, compared to methods better suited to horticulturalists, pastoralists, and hunter-gatherers and letting those teaching methods be respected.

There is no shame in writing inside Europe

The Mediterranean region contains Indigenous peoples, contains a huge diversity of skin tones, contains empires, contains democracy/a variety of governments, and in general contains every aspect of what you’re trying to create without playing god with a continent that did not evolve the way you’re trying to make it.

A Mediterranean fantasy world would still be a departure from “fantasy world 35″ as I like to call it, because it would be different from the vaguely Germanic/ French/ Norse fantasy worlds that are Tolkien ripoffs. You can dig beyond the whitewashed historical revisions and write something that actually reflects the region, and get all the fun conflicts you want.

You don’t need to go creating a European/North American blend to “be diverse.” You can perfectly respectfully write inside Europe and have as much variety in peoples as you can write in a non-European setting. Europe is not the antithesis to diversity.

North America developed a certain way for a reason. It had the required fauna, space, resources, and climate to produce what it created. The old world developed a certain way for its own reasons, based off its own factors in the same categories.

You’re not really going to get them to blend very easily, and if you did, the fact there is such a strong European way-of-life preference (by picking places that mirror European society on the surface) makes me raise an eyebrow. It’s subtle, but very much there, and the fact you are ignorant to it shows me you still need to do more work before you go writing North American Indigenous Peoples.

Writing in Europe isn’t the problem, here. Writing a whitewashed, mythologized, everyone-not-white-is-a-caricature, ahistorical “Europe” is the problem. And you cannot fix this problem by simply painting European ways of life a different skin tone when the setting isn’t European. In fact, you’re perpetuating harm by doing that, because you are recreating the cultural evolutionism that calls anything you can find in Europe “better.” Indigenous cultures were vastly different from Europe, even if they shared similar trappings.

Let North America exist without trying to shoehorn its most famous peoples into European analogues.

~ Mod Lesya

#General #Asks #submission #worldbuilding #fantasy #europe #greece #north america #Indigenous Peoples #native american #zacharandom

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soliverse · 3 years

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sugar, sugar - z.cl

reader x chenle

genre: angst, fluff

warnings: a kiss in the cheek, cuss words, pessimism (I think that’s about it? Let me know if I missed something.

word count: 6.2k

part of the Candy Hearts Collab by @127-mile (click the link if you want to read the rest of the collab)

synopsis: Your whole life, especially working for your boss, is a living nightmare. That was until you got some sugar in your life.

inspiration:

Isn’t It Romantic (The film from Netflix by Rebel Wilson),

Sugar, Sugar by the Archies

networks

@nctcreations @kdiarynet @kpopscape @kwritersworld @culture-cafe @neowritingsnet @neoswitchnet @czennienet

February 13,202x / 8:00 AM

It was a quiet and peaceful morning. Which is too bad since that’s not what you’re aiming for.

Your alarm should’ve sounded at 6:00AM. Instead, it woke you up an hour late despite how much fumbling and crying that you did make it work last night.

You have completely ditched breakfast, running as fast as you can to the bus stop that never comes and leave as scheduled.

Already half an hour late, you still sat down that bus seat, fidgeting as if not staying calm on your seat will make the bus ride shorter. Right now, the only thing that you’re still holding on to is that small, sliver of hope that you get there before your boss does.

After climbing down the vehicle, you ran like you’re in a marathon and looked for that one window that your coworker always leaves open whenever you’re late like today. You ungracefully climbed up the window of the storage room and met Jisung, who’s already getting himself ready before opening.

“Is he here yet?”

You whispered as you tried to dust your red shirt and smoothened out your wrinkled uniform. The goal is to make yourself look decent, an attempt that you barely managed to accomplish

“He just came in. Hurry up before he notices.”

You mouthed “Thanks” to Jisung before leaving the storage room and sneak into the main entrance to log yourself in for today.

Your eyes scanned the candy-themed decorations for any signs of life (or danger, in your boss’ case) but he is nowhere to be found. You walked casually towards the main entrance, breathing only a sigh of relief as soon as you get to the front door.

Finally feeling at ease, you pressed your thumb on the device that records your time and gave yourself a mental pat in the back for actually pulling it off. At least, before a hand pops out of nowhere and touched you by shoulder.

You yelped at the surprise appearance of your ever-so-stealthy boss right behind you.

“You’re late again.”

He was staring at you with those black intense eyes and his resting bitch face. His expression always made you worry because there’s no way to actually now if he’s mad or not. You kept your head down and tried to avoid as much eye contact as possible.

“Surprised? I saw your little stunt by the window. You know that it’s right in front of my office, right?”

He patted your shoulder before placing his hands back to his pockets.

“You also know that I’ll be deducting that on your payroll, right?”

“Yes sir.”

He didn’t even let you finish and just turned his back at you, walking towards his office.

“That reminds me. We should bolt that window down before someone else tries to sneak in and steal. Tell Jisung to work on that as soon as possible.”

As soon as he’s out the way, you rolled your eyes and went back to straightening the wrinkles off of your uniform.

“Tell Jisung to work on that as soon as possible.” You said, mimicking him made faces behind his back.

As if Jisung knows how to shut that window properly.

After that delightful conversation, you helped Jisung in refilling the candy containers, tidied the shop by little bit, and breathe for one final time today before you opened the shop.

Some people may have imagined working on a candy store to be a dream. You get to bask in all of the aesthetics, you get to interact with children every day, and there’s that perk that you get to enjoy an unlimited supply of sweet treats during your shift.

Oh boy, some people couldn’t have been more wrong.

Your location is near an amusement park, which is already hectic as it is, but you also need to deal with stuff that all retail staff goes through.

If you were to make an entire list of the stressful situations that you have to deal with every single shift, it would take you all day.

There are children throwing temper tantrums because their parents refused to buy the candy that the wanted, entitled Karens demanding free candy because you made her baby cry, teenagers who thinks they’re so smart by stealing handful of candies from their containers while you’re distracted. It’s a mess.

And that’s beside your main source of stress. That one is sitting on his office at the back of the store, probably playing some game on his phone while you act as both staff and manager, is the best boss in the world, Mr. Zhong Chenle.

Note the sarcasm.

That guy deserves a whole separate list by himself.

///

So far, the first few hours of your shift went smoothly. There were a few customers here and there but nothing that you and Jisung can’t handle.

All is well. But if you’ve worked retail before, you would know that those words are cursed.

You’ve always had this thing where you’d get a stomachache whenever something bad is about to happen. Ever since that one nice lady earlier told you to keep the change with a very kind smile, your stomach has been grumbling like crazy.

You sneaked into the counter and sat there for a moment to rest. The pain is bearable, but it makes it very hard for you to breathe properly. After taking a few deep breaths, the pain subsided a little bit.

Until, someone wrapped their arms around you, startling you off the chair and had you freefalling straight into your butt.

“I’m not paying you to slack off Y/N. Do something. I don’t know… rearrange the Valentines display. Just don’t sit around while there’s so much stuff to do.”

He dusted his overprized outfit that probably cost more than your wage, even grabbing the hand sanitizer from his pocket, completely acting like you had a contagious virus that.

Fighting the urge to talk back, you just turned around and went back to work.

Someday, I’m going to punch that resting bitch face off his face.

Someday.

You went back and found Jisung painstakingly arranging the M&M piece by piece, arranged by color, size and filling.

The kid makes you worry sometimes.

He’s a good kid but sometimes he can be a bit… clueless?

You remembered the first time that your boss bought a cotton candy machine and asked you and Jisung to figure out how to operate it. He almost left work with nine fingers that day.

“Hey kid. Bossman wants us to change the Valentines display.” You explained as you walk over to the center of the room where the display case is placed.

“Not again. What does he want this time?”

“I don’t know. His only instruction is do something.”

He whined for a bit, but he followed your lead shortly after and started removing all of the candy jars on display one by one.

You started working on it as well, hoping that he (aka the owner) won’t notice that you just switched the glass containers of the candy displays with each other and then placed them back in their original place.

You realized that he probably didn’t know what the display looked like in the first place. It’s just more unnecessary work just to keep you moving.

To pass the boredom, you decided to dote on the kid that is busy making a bouquet of out of rose-shaped lollipops right beside you.

“Sooo…”

You said in a high-pitched voice and tried to lighten up the mood a little.

“Any plans for the V-day?”

He stops for a moment, bowing his head down while he tried to hide his shy smile.

“I’m taking this girl out bowling.”

You squealed and poked his side to tease him. He used to be a little highschool kid that you were told to keep an eye on just in case he accidentally kills himself. It was a headache at first, but he grew on you and now he feels like your honorary little brother.

“Awww. My Jisungie is grown up. It felt like it was just yesterday when I was to trying to teach you to tie your own shoelaces. And now, you’ve got a girlfriend”

“Uhm Y/N. That was yesterday.”

You were about to pinch his cheeks once again when Chenle squeezed himself in between you and Jisung.

“And now you’re flirting. Geez. Do I have to do everything around here?”

Why does this guy keep popping out of nowhere?

He stared you and Jisung down before he slithered back to his office once again. You just stood there in disbelief, shaking your head as you went back to work.

///

The end of the day went by smoothly, which made you worry even more. As you return some of the candy displays back to the stock room, you can’t help but think that today was just the calm before the storm.

Take last year’s Valentines for example.

The shop was stuffed with that a customer fainted because of suffocation. Jisung was bleeding because some guy punched him for flirting with his girlfriend (even though the poor kid is just being nice and gave her one of the extra candy flowers.)

And oh, no dates. While everyone is busy celebrating the love that they will share together you celebrated at the fact that the day is all over.

Ever since you’ve started working at that shop, you’ve never really tried to meet new people. You keep explaining that you’re tired all day. That your job is very demanding time-wise and physically. But in reality, no one just asked you out.

You could’ve quit, but who would take in a highschool graduate without work experience? You’ve barely saved up for a whole college semester, let alone the curriculum. There’s nothing to do besides suck it up.

It’s just one of those things that you stop celebrating as you get older.

Valentine’s day, your birthday, your birthday which is the same day as Valentine’s day.

Sighing, you picked up the stack of empty boxes that you needed to take outside for the garbage truck. Once again, Chenle pops out of nowhere, hitting some of the boxes that tumbled back on the floor. His are arms folded at his chest, sneering because of the mess that he created.

“Will you clean up this mess? It’s almost closing.”

You just pursed your lips, nodding as you stacked the boxes once again, trying very hard not to lose your composure.

“And will you please close the lights outside this time? I doubt that can pay for the damages if this shop burns down.”

Back turned against your employer, you picked up the boxes from the floor. You’re just glad that it is tall enough to cover most of your face. If someone could see your face right now, they would say that it is the face of someone that is about to murder somebody. Which is getting closer and closer to reality every single time Chenle opens his mouth.

Besides, you left one of the lights open one time. His petty ass just can’t seem to live it down.

“I’ll make sure to double check before leaving, sir.”

“Good. Make it quick.”

Holding out the boxes, you figured that he’d at least hold the door out for you. You had that one tiny glimmer of hope that he’s nice after all and you judged him too hastily.

Nope.

He slams the door right behind him and closed the lights from outside.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You slammed the boxes down to search for the lights and open the door for yourself.

Just one punch. I need just one punch and that’s it. He’s gonna get what’s coming to him.

Scrambling in the dark, you almost faceplanted as you tripped one of the boxes in your way. With your arms stretched out as you feel up your surroundings, it took you a few minutes before you’ve finally managed to open the switch and see the mass that you made while stumbling.

You just facepalmed and stood there for a while, reminding yourself to take deep breaths and calm yourself before you actually burn this place down.

One by one, you stacked the boxes once again in one corner, making sure secure them this time. Keeping the door open, you’ve successfully placed them inside the bins.

One box in particular fell down to the ground. You picked it up to stuff it back to the garbage can but the motion made a rattling noise.

I must’ve missed a piece.

You dusted off the nearby pavement and sat down so you can open the box.

Inside was a few bags of candy, adorned with the usual red and white swirls with the text “Sweet Escape” taking over most of the packaging.

This one must be new.

You stuffed the box back to the garbage can, looked around for signs of a snooping, grumpy adult and placed candy on one of your back pockets.

If your boss found out that you messed up the inventory again, he will not hesitate to fire you. You’re just gonna have to sneak it inside before he gets there tomorrow. Well, assuming that your alarm clock works this time.

///

“Mom, what’s for dinner?”

You closed the door behind you and took off your shoes as entered your living room.

Throwing your keys and jacket aside, you’ve just noticed that the lights are all off and the house is eerily quiet.

You grunted as your sore feet walked itself to the kitchen, only to find a single note on the counter.

Me and your sister went out to eat tonight. Just order something for dinner

Love Mom,

All you ever wanted that night that you just to a nice, warm dinner and go straight to the bed and shut yourself from the world.

Great. No breakfast and dinner.

Fuck my life.

You threw the note in the garbage bin and just stomped your way to your room. You felt like breaking down at that moment but you didn’t have the strength to make cry and make a fuss. Maybe you can just sleep all the frustrations off and feel a lot better tomorrow.

Maybe it doesn’t get much worse than this.

You scoffed.

Sike.

As if.

You slammed yourself to bed but soon realized that it wasn’t a very good idea.

You felt something in your pocket popped and it made a huge mess in your bed. You took it out of the pocket and realized that it was the bag of candy from earlier. The seams popped out and tore open from being squished by a tired, underpaid employee.

At this point, you just glared and cursed yourself once as you cleaned the candy off of your bed. Some of the candy is inside the box, so you cupped your hands and poured the remaining contents to your palms. It was filled with tiny colorful candy hearts, which looked appetizing despite the tiny bits of disfiguration and the fact that it was in your pockets the whole time.

Well, I guess this is dinner then.

You popped the candy in your mouth, letting it sit as it oozes a strong citrusy flavor. It had a texture similar to those fever tablets for kids. In fact, it tasted like medicine a bit, too.

The citrus taste kept on spreading in your mouth and your face now contorted to a grimace. It felt like all moisture is getting sucked out of your body.

They sell this to kids?

You ran to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water to water the taste down. It didn’t do anything, so, you kept on chugging more and more water until you’ve finished an entire gallon of liquids.

You sat down at the kitchen floor and breathe a sigh of relief. The taste finally left your tastebuds, but you can still feel your body feeling repulsed by the extreme sour sugary candies that you just consumed.

Drinking one more glass of water, you went back to your room and changed into your comfortable clothes, finally ready to leave this day behind.

Let’s just hope that those candy bits won’t get you sued tomorrow.

///

February 14,202x / 8:00 AM

The alarm started blaring off from its place, scaring you shitless and making you jump out of bed in panic.

You could've have been happier and more annoyed at the same time.

You leaned against your bedroom wall, giving yourself a few minutes to calm yourself down before you decided to turn off the alarm.

Once your heartbeat has cooled down, you stepped back to the bedside table and pressed the alarm button to check the time.

8:00AM

"Dammit!”

Your heart started to race once again. This time, it’s the adrenaline rush that’s making you move faster than normal. You even contemplated about getting a shower. However, you're already screwed as it is, you're not going to work without breakfast and shower again.

You stepped back to your room, wrapped on a bathrobe and panting like you just ran a marathon. Digging into your own closet, you noticed that your uniform, a red polo shirt and matching star white pants, is missing from your closet.

"Mom! Have you seen my uniform?"

You shouted from your room but you heard no answer. It seems like they didn't stay the night either.

Great.

Seeing as how your day started, you've deemed the rest of the day unsalvageable and just grabbed the closest thing to red that you have on your closet, which is a red frilly blouse and a white paneled skirt that you've never worn before. It's right at the bottom of your closet, so you've figured you or your mother bought this before and just forgot all about it.

You also grabbed one of your newer shoes to match and bolted to the front door as fast as possible.

You locked the door behind you, only to be spooked as you turned around to see a car parked in your driveway.

It was one of those fancy ones too. The ones that have their doors open at the side like an alien spaceship.

You only know one person in the world that's flashu enough to ride one. And he's just came out of the car.

"Happy birthday! You're pretty early..."

Chenle smiled as jogs over to you, keys jingling on his fingers, and gave you a small peck on the cheek.

You stood there in your porch, frozen.

Zhong Chenle knows how to smile. And he knows about your birthday

"I was about to call you but I didn't want to wake you up. So, I came over instead. Did you eat your breakfast yet?"

You shook your head hesitantly, still unable to speak and process the situation.

"No good, young lady. Go back inside. We're not leaving with an empty stomach."

///

Here's something that you never encounter every day. Your spawn-of-the-devil employer is making you pancakes in the kitchen. And you finally have fresh milk in your fridge.

What happened to the world while you were sleeping?

"I'm not a professional chef but at least it's edible."

He said as he placed a perfectly fine plate full of fluffy pancakes right in front of you. Is this him being cocky?

He sets the apron aside and sat down right in front you, grabbing a plate and a piece of pancake for himself.

"Go on... Tell me if it's good."

You hesitantly took a bite, and then chewed in silence as Chenle expectantly watched you from the side. You set the fork down, speechless.

They're as good on the inside as they looked on the outside.

"You don't like it?"

He sounded upset. It wasn't like "I can't believe you forgot to do this thing that I told you" upset either. He looked at you with his puppy dog eyes and a bit of a pout.

You froze. What if all of this is trick? And this is just is way of firing you, like letting you down gently in case you formed a vendetta and burn the shop down in your anger.

Which, for the record, is partly true.

"Uhm. It's nice. It's very niceee"

In your panic, you might've overdone the compliment. It sounded like you're on gunpoint and you had to say it to live. Nevertheless, he still smiled to himself and took the compliment well, even pouring you another glass of milk so "it would go down better".

The interaction alone gave you the chills. It felt like you're walking on thin ice and the former Chenle will come out and bury you alive. But even that would've sound more real than what's about to happen next.

Like the gentleman that he is, he opened the car door for you. You never even got the chance to question where the two of you are going. After sitting down, just when you're about you're about to ask, he held your hand and gave it a kiss.

"You buckled up?"

"Uhm. Yes..."

Still holding your hand, he pressed some buttons on the dashboard and then music started playing. You recognized that it was that song, Sugar Sugar by The Archies. It’s one of the songs that you ironically played in the candy shop. There was also Sugar by Maroon 5, Sugar by Florida.

Well, you get the point.

“Sugar Ah, honey, honey You are my candy girl And you got me wanting you…”

He proceeds to sing along to the song merrily as he backed up your driveway. Meanwhile you sat there quietly as you tried to assess your situation.

Is this kidnapping? Would it be considered kidnapping if I willingly went inside the vehicle?

Once you’ve realized how ridiculous you sounded in your head, you relaxed for a bit and started humming along to the song. It was at this point that you realized that Chenle had a beautiful voice. The song didn’t have high notes, but it was hard to make your voice pop up with the middle register. It sounded stable, like he’s a recording artist.

The atmosphere at the shop would be much better if he sang like this all the time.

…which reminded you of something that Chenle might be neglecting to think.

Panic washed over you and soon, you can’t keep still and moved around your seat a lot.

“Are you comfortable?

He kept on glancing on your direction, keeping you in check for a few moments while he still kept an eye on the road,

“We can make a quick stop if you need something.”

Trying your best to keep yourself still, you finally sat down and placed both of your hands on your lap, like the kids at school when their parents ask them to behave.

“Where are we going again?”

The question finally popped out and you pursed your lips while trying to wait for the answer.

“I don’t know. It’s your day. We can go wherever you want to.”

“Oh.”

It’s not like him to be away from the shop at this time of the day, let alone the whole day. No matter how sucky he is, he did what is best for the shop. It was his baby.

And if the both of you aren’t going, then it only means one thing. His baby is screwed at the hands of someone.

"By the way, who's taking care of the candy shop?"

You tried to ask nonchalantly, but it only came out sounding more inconspicuous.

"Oh yeah. I left Jisung in charge."

He wistfully replied. Suddenly, you feel your head spinning from your seat from the sheer realization that he left the kid alone, in his shop, with no adult/proper supervision.

"You left Jisung alone... In charge... On Valentine's Day"

You turned your gaze away from him, trying to hide your internal panic. You'll be lucky if the guy made it alive until lunch by himself.

"Relax. He'll be fine. He's with the trainees. Figured it might teach them a thing or two in getting the actual job done."

“And with trainees too… oh my god.”

Great. More casualties.

“You don’t mind if we stopped by the shop first, do you?”

“Of course. You’re the boss.”

///

In a few minutes, he pulls over to the parking lot and you’re glad to see the shop in piece. On the outside at least.

You stepped inside the car and practically ran over to the inside of the shop, leaving Chenle behind.

“Welcome to Sweet Escape, how may I help you?”

Two unknown faces greeted you at the door. They must be the trainees that Chenle talked about earlier.

“Would you happen to know where Jisung is?”

They both nodded and pointed to the direction of the left side of the shop, which was supposed to be all the supplies were. Instead, there was Jisung on the register, which by the way looked different from what you can remember.

In fact, the whole shop looked nothing like it was yesterday. The colors seemed more vibrant and festive and the whole thing looked like a candy wonderland. To be honest, it reminded you of that one Katy Perry music video.

Jisung bowed at you formally and wore his usually customer service smile.

“Welcome to Sweet Escape, how may I—”

“How many fingers do you have now?”

You replayed the question in your head and it sounded just as crazy when it came out of your mouth. At this point, you decided to continue on with the question. For obvious safety reasons.

“Uh ma’am. What do you mean?”

“Hold your fingers up. How many do you have?”

He was hesitant to do as you say. Chenle just facepalmed and gestured him to do as you said, putting up all of his tall fingers in the air.

“Ten?”

You breathe a sigh of relief, almost rushing over to hug the confused Jisung when Chenle pulls you from behind.

“Please excuse her for the moment. She’s feeling a bit under the weather.”

He smiled and bowed to Jisung as an apology, another gesture that you haven’t seen him do before, pulling you outside the store to give you some air. Once you’ve reached the parking lot, he placed his hands on your shoulders to hold you still.

“Okay. Since when is hugging my staff became a thing?”

He stares you down with a genuine concerned look on his face.

He placed one of his hands on your forehead.

“It’s not like you’re sick either…”

Chenle sighs, finally releasing you from his grasp

“Tell me. What’s the problem?”

He sat you down at the pavement and gave you enough space to reflect on your actions.

You had the choice to say that you have absolutely no idea what’s happening to you right now, but you thought that he ought to know why you’re acting that way. Now, you just have to figure out how to explain it to him without sounding like a crazy person.

“I…”

You started slow, working your way into explaining that you woke up into this insane dream about how her boss is suddenly so nice to her that morning.

And then it hit you.

“I had a dream about you...”

Ideas started pouring down to your head, starting to piece together a story that actually made sense.

“And in that dream, you’re this mean guy that never cared about me and other people’s feelings. You just made everyone around you miserable. The dream felt so real so I’m very uncomfortable that you’re acting nice to me now.”

“Is that so?”

You nodded your head as an answer. Chenle pulls you over to a side hug, relief washing over him knowing that it wasn’t that bad as he made it up to be.

“I’m sorry if that mean version of me hurt you.”

He rested his head on your shoulders and pulled you closer to him.

“If I decided to be mean to you in a dream again, feel free to punch me or whatever. I promise to make up for all of it once you wake up.”

It was probably the nicest thing that anyone has said to you in a while. Even though it wasn’t actually him who’s hugging you and making you feel all warm inside, you’re not going to see your boss the same way again.

“You know what, why don’t we start now. There’s plenty of time today to make it up to you.”

He stood up from his seat and brushed himself, helping you do the same right after.

“Where does my y/n want to go right now?”

Your lips formed a mischievous smile.

You knew just where you wanted to go at that moment, but he’s probably not going to like it

///

“Would it hurt you to rest for one second?”

You’ve been running around the theme park for the whole day and Chenle just barely kept up to you and your antics. He gave you a small opportunity for a payback and you’re not going to let it slide. Even if it’s with nice Chenle.

You were about to run off again somewhere when he tugs you by the hem of your shirt.

“Y/N-ah, don’t you feel sick at all?”

Chenle’s eyes droop down as he tried to compose himself. As someone that doesn’t like heights and gets dizzy easily, it seems like he’s about to faint any minute now.

“But I want to ride the Ferris wheel.”

He went sheet white, if that is humanly possible. Chenle had barely enough time to recover from the roller coaster ride a few minutes ago and now you’re already on your way to hop in to another one.”

“Fine. We can rest. I don’t think my ears can handle any more of your screaming.”

You can hear Chenle complaining under his breath. The two of you went to the horror house a while ago and there was a high-pitched screaming the whole time. You’ve been teasing him with it ever since.

“I told you, that wasn’t me!”

“The only person inside is you and me. And I don’t remember screaming my own name for fifteen minutes.”

His mouth opened like he was about to say something, but he stopped midway and just took your hand to drag you at the nearest bench. He sat you down first before he took the seat right next to you, both palms on his face and trying to give himself a moment to breathe.

As much as you wished to torment that guy to death, he really looked sick to his stomach. He can barely lift his head up without taking deep breaths.

“You alright?”

You said as you patted his back gently, giving some time to relax and a moment to breathe.

“I’m fine. I did say that I’ll do anything for you today.”

He takes one last breathe before getting up the bench, only to lean on one side too much and almost toppling over.

“Yeah. I think were done for the day. You can barely stand up.”

You sat him back at the bench and caressed his back to get him to relax. Not even a minute after sitting back down, he did a thumbs up to let you know that he’s doing fine already.

“What time is it?”

“4:30. Why?”

He tried his best to stand up and keep himself still. This time, his attempt was successful.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“Are you sure?”

“You can barely stand up. What makes you think that you can drive?”

“Just trust me.”

///

Sure enough, you both got to your house unscathed.

He told you to step out of the car, which you did, and he smoothly backed the car to your garage.

“How was that?”

He said smugly just as he came out of the car, keys jingling on his fingers once again. You can joke about his motion sickness but you can’t comment on his driving.

Chenle was then about to enter your house, but you stopped him just before he turned the doorknob.

“You know what, I had a lot of fun today. It’s probably the best birthday slash Valentine’s Day that I’ve had a whole life. I think you deserve this…”

You held up your fist into a ball and pretended to land a punch to his face. He winced, which gave you and opportunity to tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

He stood there frozen for a few seconds, but it was replaced by a cheeky, boyish smile that he’s been hiding from you the whole time that you know him.

You twisted the doorknob and stepped inside your house first, when a popping sound greeted you from inside.

Turns out, those were party poppers.

“Surprise!”

Your whole family is there, alongside all of your friends from way back highschool.

“Sorry for missing you this morning sweetie, we needed some time for the party preparations. Chenle did a good job of distracting you the whole day.”

An arm wrapped itself on your shoulders and gave it a tight squeeze. It didn’t take long for you to find out who it was.

“She made me ride the roller coaster, twice.”

“Stop being a baby. I asked you the second time but you refused to come with me.”

Laughter fills the room and it went for the rest of the night. The celebration wasn’t fancy but it was enough for you to realize what life you’re missing in the real world. And as much you want to make it longer, sooner or later you’re going to have to come back to your old life.

That time was the next day.

///

February 14,202x again / 6:00 AM

The shrill sounds of the alarm clock woke you up, but you were smiling ear to ear. Something about your dream have placed you in a very good mood. Too bad you can’t remember the specific details. All you know is that there’s a car, the shop, the theme park… Zhong Chenle.

Why would it be a nice dream if your boss was in it?

Before you started conspiring some theories, you shook it off and started to get ready for today. To your surprise, the alarm woke you up on time. This means that you can take your sweet time in getting ready, possibly even make yourself an English breakfast for a change.

Your plans are foiled, however, when you realized that the kitchen wasn’t empty.

“Happy birthday…”

Your mom came from the living room to give you the tightest hug. She hasn’t hugged you like this for a long time, so you reciprocated and pulled her in a tighter embrace.

“I’m sorry that this is all we can afford for now…”

She sits you down the table and pushed the small bento cake right in front you. It is not bigger as your hands, but the pink icing and the decorations looked so delicate and beautiful.

“I promise to make you a better cake next year.”

“This is all I need Mom, thank you for doing this.”

///

Everything is going smoothly today. The bus is on time and the driver even gave you a small Valentine’s card as you went inside. For the first time in your life, you looked at the streets painted different shades of red and you’re perfectly fine with it.

You even got to work early. Doors are still shut down when you got there, so you decided to climb up the storage window so you don’t have to wait outside. As instructed, you finally locked it behind you and made it a point to be on time so you’ll never have to use it again.

You started with work right away, cleaning up as much as you can before everyone gets there. While you were mopping the main shop, you can hear keys jingling from outside, meaning that your boss already got there. The door swings forward and upon turning around, he opened the lights, only to see you standing in the middle of the shop.

He screamed at an ungodly pitch and almost fell down at his place.

“Oh, it’s just you. That wasn’t me, alright? ”

He dusted himself off tried his act together and be as cold as before, only to be embarrassed because you kept laughing at his face.

You tried to keep a straight face and bowed at him to excuse yourself. If your tardiness won’t get you fired today, it would probably be your excessive laughing.

“This is the horror house all over again.”

You swear that you heard him mumble something else, but you weren’t sure if you heard it right.

What are the odds that he dreamt about a horror house too, right?

Before you got the chance to go though, he said something that made your heart race for the rest of the day.

“You were there too, right? I just want you to know that that was really me.”

You turned around to see if he’s joking, but instead found a smiling Chenle at the other end of the shop.

“I actually liked you for a while now. So forgive me for always lashing out on you.”

He placed his hands on his pockets and walked slowly towards you, his head down while he tried to hide his shy smile.

“Happy birthday Y/N. I don’t mind repeating that day again... just don’t make me ride the roller coaster twice this time.”

///

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rigmarolling · 4 years

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Historical Holiday Traditions We Really Need To Bring Back

Here comes Santa Claus, and also a bunch of annual holiday Things we do to ensure he commits a truly boggling act of breaking and entering and leaves goods underneath the large plant in the living room.

Because I’ve always got a hankerin’ for the days of yore, here are some historical holiday traditions we really need to bring back:

1. Everything that happened on Saturnalia

Saturnalia was the ancient Roman winter festival held on December 25th--which is why we celebrate Christmas on that day and not on the day historians speculate Jesus was actually born, which was probably in the spring.

Saturnalia was bonkers. As the name suggests, it celebrated the god Saturn, who represented wealth and liberty and generally having a great time.

Above: Their party is way cooler than yours could ever hope to be.

During Saturnalia, masters would serve their slaves, because it was the one day during the year when everybody agreed that freedom for all is great, actually, let’s just do that. Everyone wore a coned hat called the pilleus to denote that they were all bros and equal, and also to disguise the fact that they hadn’t brushed their hair after partying hard all week, probably.

Gambling was allowed on Saturnalia, so all of Rome basically turned into ancient Vegas, complete with Caesar’s Palace, except with the actual Caesar and his palace because he was, you know. Alive.

The most famous part (besides getting drunk off your rocker) was gift-giving--usually gag gifts. Historians have records of people giving each other some truly impressive white elephant gifts for Saturnalia, including: a parrot, balls, toothpicks, a pig, one single sausage, spoons, and deliberately awful books of poetry.

Above: Me, except all the time.

Partygoers also crowned a King of Saturnalia, which was a predecessor to the King of Fools popular in medieval festivals. The king was basically the head idiot who delivered absurd commands to everyone there, like, “Sing naked!” or “run around screaming for an hour,” or “slap your butt cheeks real hard in front of your crush; DO IT, Brutus.”

Oh, wait. Everyone was already doing all that. Hell yes.

(Quick clarification: early celebrations of Saturnalia did feature human sacrifice, so let’s just leave that bit out and instead wear the pointy hats and sing naked, okay? Io Saturnalia, everybody.)

2. Leaving out treats for Sleipnir in the hopes of avoiding Odin’s complete disregard for your property

The whole “leave out cookies and milk for Santa” thing comes from a much older tradition of trying to appease old guys with white beards. In Norse mythology, Odin, who was sort of the head god but preferred to be on a perpetual road trip instead, took an annual nighttime ride through the winter sky called the Wild Hunt.

Above: The holidays, now with 300% more heavy metal.

Variations of the Wild Hunt story exist in a bunch of European folklore--in Odin’s case, he usually brought along a bunch of supernatural buddies, like spirits and other gods and Valkyries and ghost dogs, who, the Vikings said, you could hear howling and barking as the group approached (GOOD DOGGOS).

That was the thing, though; you never actually saw Odin’s hunt--you only heard it. And hearing it did not spark the same sense of childish glee you felt when you thought you heard Santa’s sleigh bells approaching as a kid--instead, the Vikings said, you should be afraid. Be VERY afraid.

Because Odin could be kind of a dick.

Odin was also known as the Allfather, and like any father, he hated asking for directions. GPS who? I’m the Allfather, I’m riding the same way I always ride.

And that was pretty much it: “I took this road last year and I’m taking it again this year.”

“But,” someone would pipe up from the back, “there are houses on the road now--we’re gonna run right into them. We could just take a different path; there’s actually a detour off the--”

“Nope,” Odin would say. “They know the rules. My road, my hunt, my rules. We’re going this way.”

So if you were unlucky enough to have built your house along one of Odin’s favorite road trip sky-ways, he wouldn’t just plow right past you.

He would burn your entire house down--and your family along with it.

Kids playing in the yard? Torch ‘em; they should have known better. Grandma knitting while she waits for her gingerbread Einherjar to finish baking? Sucks to be her; my road, my rules, my beard, I’m the Allfather, bitch.

Above: Santa, but so much worse.

To be fair to Odin, he could be a cool guy sometimes. He just turned into any dad when he was on a road trip and wanted to MAKE GOOD TIME, DAMN IT, I AM NOT STOPPING; YOU SHOULD HAVE PEED BEFORE WE LEFT.

To ensure they didn’t incur Odin’s road trip wrath, the Vikings had a few ways of smoothing things over with Dad.

They would leave Odin offerings on the road, like pieces of steel (??? okay ???) or bread for his dogs, or food for his giant, eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, because the only true way to a man’s heart is through his pet.

People would generally leave veggies and oats and other horse-y things out for Sleipnir, whose eight legs made him the fastest flying horse in the world and also made him the only horse to ever win Asgard’s coveted tap dancing championship.

(Side note: EIGHT legs...EIGHT tiny reindeer...eh? Eh? See how we got here? Thanks, nightmare horse!)

Above: An excellent prancer AND dancer.

And if Odin was feeling particularly charitable and not in the mood for horrific acts of arson, children would also leave their shoes out for him--it was said that he’d put gifts in your boots to ring in a happy new year.

If all that didn’t work and the Vikings heard the hunt approaching, they would resort to throwing themselves on the ground and covering their heads while the massive party sped above them like a giant Halloween rager.

So this holiday season, leave your boots out for Odin and some carrots out for his giant spider horse or you and your entire family will die in a fiery inferno, the end.

3. Yule Logs

Speaking of Scandinavia, another Northern European winter solstice tradition was the yule log. Today, if you google “yule log,” something like this will pop up:

...which isn’t an actual log, but is instead log-shaped food that you shove into your mouth along with 500 other cakes at the same time because it’s CHRISTMAS, and I’m having ME TIME; so WHAT if I ate the whole jar of Nutella by myself, alone, in the dark at 3 am?

But that log cake is actually inspired by actual logs of yore that Celtic, Germanic, and Scandinavian peoples decorated with fragrant plants like holly, ivy, pinecones, and other Stuff That Smells Nice before tossing the log into the fire.

This served a few purposes:

It smelled nice, and Bath and Body Works scented candles hadn’t been invented yet.

It had religious and/or spiritual significance as a way to mark the winter solstice.

It was a symbolic way of ringing in the new year and kicking out the old.

Common belief held that the ashes of a yule log could ward off lightning strikes and bad energy.

Winter cold. Fire warm.

Everybody loves to watch things burn. (See: Odin.)

The yule log cakes we eat today got their start in 19th century Paris, when bakers thought it was a cute idea to resurrect an ancient pagan tradition in the form of a delicious dessert, and boy, howdy, were they right.

In any case, I’m 100% down with eating a chocolate yule log while burning an actual yule log in my backyard because everybody loves to watch things burn; winter cold, fire warm; and hnnnngggg pine tree smell hnnnnggg.

(Quick note: The word “yule” is the name of a traditional pagan winter festival, still celebrated culturally or religiously in modern pagan practice. It’s also another name for Odin. He had a bunch of other names, one of the most well-known being jólfaðr, which is Old Norse for “Yule father.” If you would like to royally piss him off, or if you are Loki, feel free to call him “Yule Daddy.”)

4. Upside down Christmas trees

I just found out that apparently, upside down Christmas trees are a hot new trend with HGTV types this year, so I guess this is one historical trend we did bring back, meaning it doesn’t really belong on this list, but I’m gonna talk about it, anyway.

Side note: Oh, my god, that BANNISTER. I NEED.

Historians aren’t actually sure where the inverted Christmas tree thing came from, but we know people were bringing home trees and then hanging them upside down in the living room as early as the 7th century. We have a couple theories as to why people turned trees on their heads:

Logistically, it’s way easier to hang a giant pine tree from your rafters upside down by its trunk and roots. You just hoist that baby up there, wind some rope around the rafter and the trunk, and boom. Start decorating.

A Christian tradition says that one day in the 7th century, a Benedictine monk named Saint Boniface stumbled across a group of pagans worshipping an oak tree. So, instead of minding his own damn business, he cut the tree down and replaced it with a fir tree. While the pagans were like, “Dude, what the hell?” Boniface used the triangular shape of the fir tree to explain the concept of the holy trinity to the pagans. Some versions have him planting it right-side up, others having him displaying a fir tree upside down. Either way, it’s still a triangle that’s a solid but ultimately very rude way of explaining God. Word’s still out on whether anyone was converted or just rightly pissed off that this random guy strolled into their place of worship, chopped down their sacred tree, and plopped HIS tree down instead. Please do not do that this holiday season.

Eastern Europeans lay claim to the upside-down tree phenomenon with a tradition called podłazniczek in Poland--people hung the tree from the ceiling and decorated it with fruits and nuts and seeds and ribbons and other festive doodads.

(God, who lives in these houses? Look at that. That’s like a swanky version of Gaston’s hunting lodge. Where do I get one? Which enchanted castle do I have to stumble into to chill out in a Christmas living room like that?)

Today, at least in the West, upside-down trees are making a comeback because...I don’t know. Chip and Joanna Gaines said so.

Some folks say it’s a surefire way to keep your cats from clawing their way through the tree and then puking up fir needles for weeks afterward, which checks out for me.

5. Incredibly weird Victorian Christmas cards

So back in the 19th century, the Christmas card industry was really getting fired up. Victorians loved their mail, let me tell you. They loved sending it. They loved getting it. They loved writing it. They loved opening it. They loved those sexy wax seals you use to keep all that sweet, sweet mail inside that sizzling envelope. (Those things are incredibly sexy. Have you ever made a wax seal? Oh, man, it’s hot.)

The problem, though, was that while the Victorians arguably helped standardize many of the holiday traditions we know and love today (Christmas trees, caroling, Dickens everything, spending too much money, etc.) back in 1800-whenever, a lot of that Christmas symbolism was, um...still under construction. No one had really agreed on which visual holiday cues worked and which...didn’t.

Meaning everyone just kind of made up their own holiday symbols. Which resulted in monstrous aberrations like this card:

What the hell is that? A beet? Is that a beet? Or a turnip? Why is it...oh, God, why does it have a man’s head? Why does the man beet have insect claws?

What is it that he’s holding? A cookie? Cardboard? A terra cotta planter?

And then there’s this one:

“A Merry Christmas to you,” it says, while depicting a brutal frog murder/mugging.

What are you trying to tell me? Are you threatening me with this card? Is that it? Is this a threat? How the hell am I supposed to interpret this? “Merry Christmas, hide your money or you’re dead, you stupid bitch.”

Also, why is the dead frog naked? Did the other frog steal his clothes after the murder? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS?

Victorian holiday cards also doubled as early absurdist Internet memes, apparently, because how else do I explain this?

Is this some sort of tiny animal Santa? A mouse riding a lobster? Like, the mouse, I get. Mice are fine. Disney built an empire on a mouse. And look, he’s got a little list of things he’s presumably going to bring you: Peace, joy, health, happiness. (In French. Oh, wait, is that that Patton Oswalt rat?)

But a LOBSTER? What’s with the lobster? It’s basically a sea scorpion. Why in the name of all that is good and holy would you saddle up a LOBSTER? I hate it. I hate it so, so much. Just scurrying around the floor with more legs than are strictly necessary, smelling like the seafood section of Smith’s, snapping its giant claws.

This whole card is a health inspector’s worst nightmare. It really is.

I gotta say, though, I am a fan of this one:

Presumably, that polar bear is going in for a hug because nothing stamps out a polar bear’s innate desire to rip your face from your skull than candy canes and Coke and Christmas spirit.

This next one is actually fantastic, but for all the wrong reasons:

I know everyone overuses “same” these days but geez, LOOK at that kid. I can HEAR it. SAME.

If you’ve ever been in a shopping mall stuffed with kids, nothing sums it up better than this card. This is like the perverse version of those Anne Geddes portraits that were everywhere in the late 90s. “Make wee Jacob sit in the tea pot; everyone will--Jacob, STOP, look at Mommy; I said LOOK. AT. MOMMY--everyone will love it.”

Actually, you know what? Every other Christmas card is cancelled. This is the only card we will be using from now on. This is it.

Wait, no. We can also use this one:

Merry Christmas. Here’s a fuckin’...just a dead fuckin’ bird.

#victorian #listory #christmas #holidays #mythtory #norse mythology #odin

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sugiwa · 3 years

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Hi. I am the Advice Anon. Please ignore those asks! I am so sorry for spamming your ask box. I still need help, so I’ll paste the entire thing over here. Again, sorry and thank you! Have a great day!

My reply and the full ask are below:

Hello! I hope you’ve been having a great day so far. This is probably unlike all of the other asks you get on a daily basis, author. However, I am in dire need of help, and I have turned to you. Before I begin, I want to apologize in advance, as this ask is going to be long. Now, like I said before, I need some help. You see, I am a freshman in high school, and school hasn’t even been going on for a full 10 weeks (a quarter), and I am already in a huge, messy, sticky situation. You probably already know that in high school, you need a certain number of credits in each field to be able to graduate. I am going to be extremely vague about this because it doesn’t really matter, and I’d really like to remain anonymous, if you know what I mean. One of the fields is World Languages and Visual Arts. Obviously, I am not talented enough to do Visual Arts, so I opted for World Languages instead. My teacher for the course I chose this year… she’s nice. Really kind, and I love that she makes learning a whole new language and culture, which is extremely hard, so much fun. And the fact that she’s one of the nicest teachers I know makes the rest of this so, so painful for me. 4 days ago, for me, was a Thursday. In this class, we had a vocab quiz that day (background info: two days before every quiz, my teacher posts a practice quiz to be done before class starts). I don’t really want to discuss what happened, as it still brings tears to my eyes, but I will give you a vague summary of what was going on. Basically, I couldn’t access my quiz (it was online), so my teacher told me to come in after school to re-do it. I was supposed to close down my computer and work on homework from another class, but instead of doing so, I worked on the practice quiz. And… this was considered cheating, because I was getting extra practice in before taking the quiz– something that the other students didn’t get, you know? My teacher saw my computer screen, and told me that she’d talk to me after school, and she’d be calling home. I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the class, because I was afraid of what might happen when she called home. After school, she told me to speak with her, and be honest about it. When cheating happens, at our school, the teacher will write us up for Academic Dishonesty and give it to the administration, who then decides the consequences. My teacher had told me that if I was honest with her, she wouldn’t write my up; she’d just give me a zero on the quiz and call home and tell them what I did. I was honest with her, because like I said before, I was afraid. Once I told her everything that happened, she told me that I could call home, let them know what happened myself, and I’d be off the hook (with a zero on the quiz, of course). So, I called home, like she had asked of me, but… they didn’t pick up. I told her that they didn’t pick up, and she told me that it was fine, and that she’d talk to my parents in-person before they picked me up from school. I’m not going to lie, that terrified me more than calling home. I don’t really remember what happened after that, because I was too busy crying, but I do remember that she mentioned something about me doing this before, and that it was not OK to do it the second time, but she’d let me off the hook. The thing is, I am 100% sure I haven’t done this before… or maybe she just didn’t approach me the first time. I told her that I didn’t do this before, and she told me that I was lying again, and began to write me up. I told her that I didn’t mean to do this, and that I was sorry, but she told me to stop lying. She said that she DID approach me the first time I did this, and that I was rude to her then. This brought tears to my eyes– my kind of favorite teacher telling me that I was rude to her. You see, I didn’t grow up here, and although I’ve lived here for 4 years, I am not used to the way people interact here. It was very different where I grew up. For example, you didn’t ask each other how their day was, or what they did during their day, unless you were REALLY curious or concerned, because that was considered nosy and rude. So, I tend to be unintentionally rude, and completely oblivious to it; I have no idea when I’m being rude or not, unless someone specifically says so. I also don’t really understand people well, so that’s a huge problem. So… hearing this from her, really hurt. I told her that I didn’t intend to be rude, and I was trying my best to change (I mean, I was & am reading a book to teach me etiquette and all), and she replied with “that’s good to hear”. Then, when my parents came to pick me up, she talked to them, and even asked one of my parents to walk with us to the Administration Office to turn in the write up. Stuff happened, I got called into the Assistant Principal’s office, and now I have a zero on my quiz (and my homework activity that I never finished), Saturday School, and a black mark on my record. But the thing is… that’s not what I’m concerned about at all. Sure, getting my grades up in time for Progress Reports is going to be an extremely hard task, and Saturday School is going to leave a huge black mark on my record, but that’s not what I’m worried about. My grades have been fractured, but so has my relationship with this teacher. I feel as though she hates me now, that she has lost all trust in me. (Background info: our school does Odd and Even days, so I have half of my classes on one day and half on the other, so that means that I didn’t face my teacher at all on Friday) 3 days ago, on Friday, when I went to school, it was an average day. It would have been an amazing day, had it not been for the situation I was in. All I could think about that day was my World Language teacher. And just thinking about her, and about that classroom, it… gives me a bit of anxiety. This is where I need your help. What would you do if you were in my situation? I really want to repair my relationship with my teacher, because I know that she’s really important; we’re going to be on the same campus for the next 4 years of my life, and even more importantly, she’s going to be my teacher for the next 8 months. I want to graduate with good grades, but more importantly, I want to graduate without holding a grudge against my teacher. I want her to like me, and I want to gain her trust again. Today is a Sunday for me, and I have to go back to school tomorrow, and I have her class then. A part of me is really scared to go to school, a part of me is really angry at my teacher for reporting me (even though it was the right thing to do), and a part of me wants to ditch school tomorrow, or even drop out or transfer from her course, all because I don’t want to face her after I did the wrong thing. It’s not only that, either. I’ve also been avoiding my friends. Would you like to know why I am confiding in awesome strangers on the internet anonymously instead of letting my friends know what’s going on? It’s because I’m afraid that they won’t like me anymore, and they’d ditch me or something. They’re amazing people, and I know that they won’t do that, but a part of me is still paranoid. I’ve been avoiding my friends since Friday, barely talking to them at school, and texting them a little bit in our group chat. They don’t really suspect anything, but that’s good. And that’s why I am asking you. Not just you, but actually anyone who sees this, if they helped me, I’d really appreciate it. I really need help moving forward in this situation, and I’m desperate for help. My parents don’t understand the situation I’m in, and I’m too scared to talk to my friends about it, so I’d really appreciate the help. It’s OK if you don’t reply to this, author. I know that this doesn’t affect you in any way, so you’re not obliged to help me. I’d like to thank you for taking the time from your day to read these extremely long asks. Have a great day. P.S: I absolutely love What Heroes Do! Izumi is such a well written character, and sometimes, I see myself in her. The way she handles situations is so inspirational! And your writing skills are top-tier! My best friend and I actually started writing a book 4 years ago (I mean, we wrote for one month in 6th grade, and then spent one day in 8th grade editing it, and we’ve only got a prologue and 1.5 chapters done, so… clearly, we aren’t doing a good job lol), and you’ve inspired me to go back to that book and re-do it! Thank you so much for being such an inspiration and an idol of mine! Ilysm ❤️

sugiwa:

I wanted to take the proper time to reply to this. I think any adult willing to hold a grudge against a child is in the wrong. You clearly made a mistake and are now taking steps to improve and learn from it. Additionally, I think teachers tend to forget how much stress students are under in their academic and private lives, so a mistake should be used as an opportunity to teach not punish. I don’t think that you should worry about what this teacher thinks of you. Your teacher didn’t believe you, despite you telling them the truth. No matter how kind or nice someone is, their behavior towards you will always reflect their inner thoughts. If you’ve clearly made a mistake, you should fight to prove that. It’s not as if you intended to ‘cheat,’ given the situation we’re all in with the pandemic, online classes and quizzes are the norm. These kinds of things probably happen regularly. Additionally. I don’t think you need to concern yourself with being rude. My culture is rather blunt and when I first moved here, people weren’t fans of brutal honesty, so it was a big cultural shock. If people aren’t willing to learn about your culture and understand, then I don’t think they’re people worth hanging out with. Lean on your friends, I don’t think they’d make a big deal over a couple of mistakes and if they do, then it might be worth reconsidering why you were friends with them.

Thank you for your kind words about the story and I really hope everything works out for you!!

#submission #anon

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1dffchallenges · 4 years

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It’s All Happening

Written By: @luminescencefics

Characters: Frankie/Harry

Summary: If Frankie Goodhart had one secret in her life, it would be that she spent her summer writing album reviews to Rolling Stone, hoping one day they’d give her a shot. If she had a second secret in her life, it would be that she was constantly chasing love, never knowing what it felt like to be truly immersed in another person. She blames this on her ever-growing record collection filled with love songs.

Harry Styles had a lot of secrets in his life, but if he had to share one, it would be that he was trying his hardest to balance his life while being on the road with his band. Just as he’s starting to feel like he’s begun to balance the ever-shifting scales of his life, Frankie shows up, and suddenly he doesn’t want to keep his secrets hidden any longer.

Well, except one.

Inspired by Almost Famous, a 70s au about a girl whose job required her to ask the hard-hitting questions and a boy who did everything he could to avoid them.

March 1973 - entry no. 1

Most mornings in the Goodhart household typically started with some sort of screaming match between Frankie’s mother and her older sister, Mary. You see, Mary had a penchant for rebellious behavior, or so their mother believed. She liked listening to rock music and kissing her boyfriend Greg outside in his Chevrolet Nova past curfew. Mary graduated high school four years before Frankie did, and her mother had begged her to go to college. But instead, Mary took that time to “find herself,” and put off enrolling into schools on the west coast in favor of finding her own place in the world.

Cynthia Goodhart had a lot of rules in their household, but two that stood out the most (and practically ruined Mary’s life) were: no rock music and no popular culture influences. Cynthia believed that her children did not need those things to rot their brain, and instead played classical music and watched films that she had seen numerous times before to ensure they were censored appropriately and recently introduced soy to their diets.

“This is why dad left you!” Mary would say whenever their mother would find a hidden record that went against her arbitrary rules.

“You’re so ungrateful, I didn’t raise you to be so cruel!” Her mother would respond, and Frankie would sit on the top of the carpeted stairs and watch it all unravel below her.

Truth is, Frankie didn’t know why their dad left. She was too young to remember what life was like with him around, but Mary always told her that it was their mother who drove him away with her incessant rules and authoritative outlook on life.

“I’m never going to end up like her, Frankie,” Mary would say after their fight, squeezed beside her little sister in her twin bed. Frankie would just hold her hand tightly and agree, even though she didn’t really think her mother was all that bad.

A few weeks later when Mary announces that she’s leaving Santa Monica and going to San Francisco to become a stewardess, Frankie isn’t all that surprised. It was only a matter of time until Mary left. Their mother didn’t take this well, of course. She wanted Mary to go to college and find a nice boy to start a family with. She didn’t want her running off to San Francisco with Greg to travel a world so far from what she had known.

Before the Chevrolet Nova skids out of the driveway and Frankie never sees her sister again, Mary runs up to her and gives her the tightest hug she could muster. Frankie holds her with all of her grip, wishing that she didn’t feel that she had to run away in order to be her own person. But it was out of Frankie’s control, so she could only wish the best for her older sister.

“Frankie,” Mary whispers in her ear, “look under my bed. That suitcase is yours. Everything you’ve ever wanted to know, every question you have, the answers are there. I love you. I always have.”

After Mary is long gone and her mother has cried out all of her tears, Frankie slips into her sister’s room and lifts up the ruffled bedskirt to find an old brown leather suitcase. She opens it and inside is Mary’s secret cache of rock albums spanning decades. Frankie heaves it into her room and plucks Tommy by The Who on her record player and plays it softly, and in that moment she feels as if her life is finally starting.

***

May 1973 - entry no. 2

Frankie was sitting in her bedroom listening to

Exile on Main St.

by the Rolling Stones trying to clear her head. She was suffering from a bit of writer’s block, and she was feeling a bit uninspired at the moment.

During the middle of “Torn and Frayed,” Frankie hears the landline start ringing from the kitchen downstairs. Her mother was currently in the shower, and deeming the call to be rather important as it was after dinner time, Frankie trudges downstairs to answer before the ringing has ceased.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Lester Bangs here. Is this Frankie Goodhart?” A deep voice says on the other line.

Frankie pauses, scrolling through the rolodex in her brain trying to remember if she knew anybody with that name. Suddenly, Frankie sucks in a breath, realization dawning on her.

“Hello? Do I have the wrong number or something?” The voice repeated, clearly losing patience. Frankie was currently speaking to the Lester Bangs, top music editor at Rolling Stone magazine. Also known as, the name she had scribbled on the past fifteen manilla envelopes she sent out to the magazine up in San Francisco.

“Er, yes. Hi, this is she,” Frankie mutters, trying to sound sophisticated.

“Awesome. I work at Rolling Stone and we just came across your review for Bowie’s Aladdin Sane record. Ace work,” Lester says quickly, and Frankie can feel her heartbeat in her throat.

“Oh cool. Thank you,” Frankie replies, quietly jumping up and down on the tile flooring of her kitchen.

“Are you currently writing for any other publication? Please don’t tell me those bastards over at Creem snatched you up,” Lester asks.

“No, uh, nothing like that. Just freelancing, at the, er, current moment,” Frankie says. She lowers her voice an octave so she doesn’t sound like the eighteen year old high school graduate she clearly was. She was sure that Rolling Stone would want nothing to do with her if they knew the truth.

“Good to hear. On the envelope in front of me it says you're based out in Santa Monica. Tonight there’s a show at The Troubadour. The Nocturnals are performing and if you’re up for it, we’ll give you fifty dollars to write a review on it. Eight hundred words.” Lester spoke so quickly that Frankie couldn’t even discern what he was actually saying to her.

The Troubadour. A live show. The Nocturnals. Fifty dollars.

The words replayed over and over in her mind like a broken record. She had no idea that this could even happen to her. Before she could reply, Lester spoke again.

“Fine. Seventy dollars, but I can’t go any higher,” he sounded exasperated with a hint of desperation laced in between.

Just as Frankie was about to respond with a resonant yes, she hears her mother’s voice on the other telephone from her bedroom through the tinny speakers.

“Francine? Who on earth are you speaking to at this time?”

Frankie’s heart drops.

“Uh… Hello?” Lester asks, completely confused as to why there were two voices on the line. Before her mother could blow her cover, Frankie drops the receiver onto the kitchen counter and sprints upstairs to her mother’s bedroom, slamming her fingers on the lever to end the call.

“It’s a friend from school. Sorry it’s a late call, I’ll get off the phone in a minute,” Frankie rushes out, before turning back on her heel and grabbing the other telephone in the kitchen.

“Hi Lester, sorry, that was my, uh, assistant. Yeah. She’s sort of new at answering the phones and such,” Frankie shoots out quickly, lying straight through her teeth.

She needed this phone call to end immediately.

“No worries. I’ll expect a review mailed over by tomorrow so it’s on my desk by Monday morning. Any questions?” Lester asks in a way that sounded like he really didn’t have the time to answer.

“Nope. Sounds good,” Frankie says sounding completely out of breath.

“Expect to hear from me on Monday. Good luck,” Lester says, hanging up before Frankie could even consider responding.

Frankie’s first reaction was to start squealing in excitement. The second was, shit, what am I supposed to say to my mother?

***

Somehow, Frankie convinces her mother to drive her down Sunset Strip towards The Troubadour for the live show. If there’s one thing Frankie Goodhart could never do in this world, it would be to hurt her mother. Granted, she knows her rules are a bit obscene and that she can be a bit overbearing at times, but at the end of the day, she was her mother. And that was the main difference between Frankie and Mary—Mary thought running away was the answer to everything whereas Frankie believed honesty was most important.

Which is why Frankie was currently sitting in the front seat of her mother’s baby blue Lincoln Continental parked illegally across the street from the concert venue. She had spilled the beans about her writing cohorts to Rolling Stone, and even though her mother didn’t like the idea of it, she appreciated the fact that Frankie was trying to make something of herself. And there’s no denying that seventy dollars was a lot of money for any eighteen-year-old.

“Please make good choices. I’ll be here to pick you up at ten on the dot,” her mother says, staring at Frankie sharply.

“I will, mom.” Frankie makes a move for the door handle, watching as the crowd of teenagers and twenty-somethings huddle towards the front entrance. It’s loud and she can smell cigarette smoke and marijuana in the air. She knows her mother can too, and she knows that she’s about two minutes away from a full-blown heart attack, so before she can escape the confines of the car, she gives her mother a gentle reassuring squeeze.

With her tape recorder in one hand and her pocket-sized notebook in the other, Frankie starts walking towards the front entrance. Before she can get too far, she hears her mother bark out one last order.

“And Francine? NO DRUGS!”

Frankie feels her cheeks burn up as the people in front of her turn around and snicker at her mother’s frame hanging out of the Continental. They jokingly repeat her mother’s warning, with some even holding up a lit joint at her, cackling away.

If there was a hole in the pavement, Frankie would admittedly jump into it.

She makes her way to the front entrance with no luck. The show was sold out, and she didn’t have a ticket. Before Frankie can start to panic, she reassess the venue and sees that around the back there was some sort of loading dock. She turns the corner and is situated at the top of a ramp, with a group of three girls at the bottom giggling to themselves near a steel door.

“Are you new?” Frankie hears a voice from behind her.

She turns and is face to face with one of the most beautiful girls she’s ever seen in her life. Her blonde hair is long and curly, cascading over her shoulders and down her back effortlessly, ending just above two hollow dimples. The girl towers over Frankie, and when she looks down at her glittery go-go boots she understands why. Her long legs are toned and smooth underneath her leather mini skirt. She’s wearing a silver halter top that is so sheer Frankie can see her nipples through the thin layer of material. Over top is a pink velvet trench coat with frills on the lining, a garment completely inappropriate for the California heat in the beginning of summer.

That doesn’t matter though, because this girl emits confidence that is almost palpable. Frankie compares her own outfit to this girl’s, her long ivory legs and knobby knees hidden beneath her flared denim bell bottoms, her pointed boots with the small heel making her seem taller than she actually was. Her white cropped t-shirt is almost childlike compared to this girl’s daring choice, and when Frankie looks up she’s a bit embarrassed to be seen with her.

“Uh, I guess. I’m supposed to be writing an article about The Nocturnals for Rolling Stone, but I found out a bit late and I don’t have a ticket,” Frankie explains, holding up her tape recorder lamely. She really wishes she thought this entire thing through.

“Ooh, a journalist,” the girl echoes, reaching into her translucent plastic purse to grab a cigarette. She’s effortlessly cool in a way that should be intimidating to Frankie, but for some unknown reason she emits warmth.

“Cherry!” Frankie hears from down below the ramp. Suddenly the squealing trio starts running up the pavement and Frankie watches as the curly blonde skips down to meet them in a group hug. They’re all wearing some sort of sequinned ensemble, and Frankie can only assume that they’re groupies.

“Who’s this, Cherry?” A girl with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes asks, pointing at Frankie. Her long fingers are covered in jeweled rings and she has a fair amount of kohl liner surrounding her eyes. She’s wearing leather and is not as warm as the blonde girl.

“I’m not sure. I think she’s new, girls,” the blonde girl, presumably Cherry, says. She sounds much older than she looks and it’s almost obvious that she’s the ring leader of this troupe of glittery girls.

“I’m a journalist. I’m not a, uh, grou…” the words fall out of Frankie’s lips before she can finish the sentence. The girls in front of her hang their mouths open in shock, and Frankie feels as if she has said the wrong thing. The blonde girl has a hint of a smile on her face, as if the whole interaction is amusing to her.

“Don’t you dare say groupie!” The black-haired girl shrieks, practically jumping out of her skin.

Frankie feels bad, suddenly.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I mean I just—”

“—Assumed?” Cherry finishes for her.

Frankie shrugs her shoulders because she isn’t sure what to say. She feels bad for assuming the worst out of these girls, but she really couldn’t blame herself considering they were standing at a back entrance wearing far too much eye makeup than they should be. Frankie hated to judge people, because she didn’t deem it fair. But, she genuinely didn’t know any better. And she really didn’t think that these girls would be offended.

“You’re talking to Cherry Bomb here. She changed the groupie way of life forever. Before Cherry, girls were just throwing themselves at rockstars and sleeping with them just for the hell of it. Cherry here inspires people, man. They write songs about her! It’s much deeper than just sex, honey,” the girl with black hair says, pointing at Cherry as if she was a fine painting in a museum that you weren’t allowed to touch.

In some ways, she sort of was like that.

Cherry just smiles. “It’s about the connection. You’ll see,” she says.

Before Frankie could apologize again and leave, the large steel door opens and another pretty girl with brown hair and shiny pants comes out, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cluster of backstage passes in the other. The girls all start running towards the door, and Frankie is about to turn around in defeat before she feels a small hand latch onto her forearm.

“Aren’t you coming?” Cherry asks with a grin.

Before she could respond, Cherry tugs on her arm and the two girls are running through the steel door into the large venue. The other four girls start walking ahead, sharing sips from the large bottle of champagne, but Cherry hangs back, slowing her strides so she’s matching Frankie’s slow gait.

“So, what do I call you?” Cherry asks as they continue walking down a long hallway.

“Frankie,” she responds, looking up into Cherry’s silver eyes. “What do I call you?”

Cherry laughs. “Cherry should be fine,” she says, her words twisting as if they were a riddle.

Before Frankie could respond, they’re suddenly being thrust into a much smaller room. The air is stale with cigarette smoke and the effervescent scent of boy. Inside the makeshift dressing room, Frankie recognizes the girls from outside lounging around men of different ages. They’re laughing and drinking straight liquor from the bottle and Frankie tries her hardest to conceal her uneasiness.

Because in front of her were The Nocturnals, and she had a job to do.

She notices the drummer and the bassist, Jett and Rod, sitting on a torn up leather couch sharing a joint between the two all while entertaining Cherry’s friends. A girl with hair as dark as coals sits in front of a mirror applying red lipstick and Frankie recognizes her as the keyboardist and backing vocalist, Veronica—the only female in the band. A man with dark green eyes and long brown hair looks up and smiles when Cherry walks into the room, and Frankie realizes that he is Eddie, the lead guitarist.

Frankie did her research.

Before she could start conducting her interviews, a husky voice from the other side of the room calls out, stopping Frankie dead in her tracks.

“Cher, who’s your friend?” he asks.

Frankie’s head snaps up and immediately her blue eyes latch onto a pair of green. They’re much lighter than Eddie’s, and if Frankie was standing closer, she would be able to see the turquoise ring that outlined his pupil. His hair is shorter than the rest of the men in the band, albeit still curling around the tops of his ears. He’s the only member of The Nocturnals with a bare face, sans facial hair, and Frankie is taken aback by his youthful features. He’s wearing white wide-legged trousers and a bright pink shirt tucked under the waistband, barely buttoned up, showcasing his toned stomach and chest. His sleeves are rolled up and Frankie can almost make out the shapes of his tattoos, but before she can inspect them further, she’s completely aware that she’s been staring at him far too long.

Him, also known as Harry Styles, the lead singer of The Nocturnals.

Cherry hasn’t said anything, but with one look in her silver eyes, she’s said an entire string of words to Frankie without even opening her mouth.

Frankie suddenly feels a fire start to grow in her stomach.

“Harry, this is my friend Frankie. She’s a journalist,” Cherry announces loud enough for the rest of the room to hear over the beginning riffs of the opening band’s first song.

“A journalist?! Who let her in? She’s the enemy!” Eddie yells over from the couch. It’s clear that the rest of the band feel the same way about having a reporter around, and Frankie’s confidence suddenly starts wavering.

“Oi, calm down Eddie. She looks harmless enough,” Harry says slowly, suddenly appearing right in front of her. His voice is low and his eyes have a twinkle to them and Frankie’s throat has become increasingly dry.

“Hi Frankie, I’m Harry. Nice to meet you,” he says, towering above her from his stance.

Frankie shoots her arm out for a handshake. “Hi Harry. Nice to meet you, too.” His hands feel warm in her grasp and she’s shaking his so hard that the bangles on her wrists clang together like tambourines.

“If you have the time, I’d love to ask you a few questions before you—”

“—Five minutes!” A voice interrupts. Instantly, the band starts standing up and running around the room, grabbing various instruments and beginning to tune them accordingly. Roadies come in to grab amplifiers and microphone stands, and everything starts twirling together like a whirlwind and Frankie is losing grasp on what she’s supposed to be doing here in the first place.

The band starts walking towards the stage and Cherry grabs Frankie’s arm again, giggling a bit to herself. They catch up to Jett, and Frankie can see through his red-rimmed eyes and his glazed over stare that he’s stoned out of his mind, but he smiles at her and gives her a small nod, and Frankie feels a bit more welcomed.

“So who do you write for?” he asks, grabbing his drumsticks from the back pocket of his blue jeans and running his fingers over the shiny wood.

“Rolling Stone,” Frankie replies quickly.

He stops walking for a moment and looks up with wide eyes. “No shit? I’ll come find you after the show. Give ya a real interview,” he says excitedly, before giving her one last parting nod and approaching the rest of the band.

Frankie feels a bit out of sorts, but Cherry is still standing by her side and she feels an odd sense of comfort in that. The band is doing some sort of pre-show ritual and Frankie starts scribbling it all down in her notebook because it seems like the right thing to do. She watches the huddle break apart in front of her, and the band starts walking out onto the dimly lit stage.

She can hear the roars of the crowd, can practically feel them vibrating through the thick leather of her boots. And just before Harry steps on stage, he looks over his shoulder and gives her a wink, and the fire inside Frankie’s stomach turns into a full-blown blaze.

***

The show is everything and more. Frankie started by lingering in the background, letting the rest of the friends of the band stand closer to the side stage viewing area. After their first song was over and the crowd was cheering louder than anything Frankie had ever heard before, she feels Cherry drag her towards the front where she can get a better view of the band.

“How are you supposed to write an article standing all the way back there?” Cherry asks with a grin. They’re standing so close together that Frankie can feel the frills on her jacket tickling her cheekbones, but she doesn’t mind.

“Good evening, everybody,” Harry says after they’ve finished their first song of the night. He’s nothing but confident up there, a true frontman, and Frankie is a little bit in awe of him. “We’re The Nocturnals. I hope you like this next one,” he says and the crowd cheers. He looks over towards Eddie with a nod and he starts picking at the fret, playing a loud solo before the drums crash in and the second song starts.

It’s the third single off of their album and Frankie isn’t ashamed that she knows all the words. She would be lying if she didn’t think it was a good album. She remembers running to the other end of the boulevard into Tower Records before they closed to purchase it. Frankie must have played it for a week straight on the record player in her room.

Frankie starts scribbling in her journal, balancing on one foot while her knee is raised in a ninety degree angle acting as a makeshift desk. Her head is darting up, down, making sure not to miss a moment, but also making sure she’s capturing it all for the article.

“Enough of that, Frankie. Just watch,” Cherry says, whispering in her ear. Her small hands put pressure on the notebook over Frankie’s thigh, pressing down so her boot-clad feet touch the ground again.

“But I have to—”

“—Just watch. It’s the best way to experience the music.”

And Frankie does just that.

***

The show finishes with an encore of their number one hit single, “Too Much.” It’s electrifying and Frankie is glad that she listened to Cherry’s advice and watched the entire thing with wide eyes, remembering every moment of it. She could feel everything—the thumping of the bass, the rattling of the cymbals, the zing of the keyboards. But Harry’s voice—that was something she couldn’t wait to write about.

Frankie’s raking through the thesaurus in her mind trying to think of other words to describe his voice. She scribbles down guttural and gravelly, grating and gruff, throaty and raspy before she’s hearing it right in front of her.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks, and Frankie is trying her best not to stare at the sweat dripping down the sides of his forehead, past his cheekbone, and pooling at his deep collarbones.

She blinks.

“It was amazing. Perfect, almost,” she replies.

“Almost?” Harry repeats, tilting his head downwards. Frankie watches as a bead of sweat travels down the bridge of his nose and she feels the warmest she’s ever felt this entire night.

Frankie reaches out to grab her tape recorder. Just as her finger is hovering over the record button, Harry shakes his head, tutting in disapproval.

“Not now.” And with that he walks away.

Frankie searches around for Jett, remembering that he promised her an interview after the show. Surprisingly, it goes a lot better than her attempt with Harry, and not long after, Rod decides to pitch in and add some remarks about the performance. Reapplying her makeup from the vanity behind the group, Veronica agrees to speak to Frankie and somehow she’s surprised that this group of people who once called her the enemy suddenly have an inkling to speak to her.

Harry reemerges suddenly, swapping out his pink dress shirt for a black one. It still isn’t buttoned appropriately, and he’s still looking at her with a twinkle in his emerald eyes that Frankie has never seen before. She watches as one of Cherry’s friends tries to give him attention, but his eyes are locked on Frankie’s, and she knows that this is the moment she needs to get his interview before the clock strikes ten.

“Do you have time to talk?” Frankie asks, approaching the pair cautiously.

The auburn haired girl rolls her eyes, but Harry just nods, shooing her away. Frankie feels bad.

They sit in the farthest corner of the room, her notepad and pen at the ready, her finger hovering over the record button. Harry’s watching her intently, inspecting her close enough that he can see the nervous shake of her hand, the small quiver of her lip.

“So, what has inspired you to make music?” Frankie asks, wasting no time.

Harry blows out a breath. “That’s the first question you ask me?” He reaches his hand out for the bottle of whiskey on the table, slugging it without pouring it into a glass.

“Well, on your debut album your song ‘1969’ clearly comes from personal—”

“—What inspired you to write?” Harry asks, completely ignoring Frankie’s question.

“Excuse me?” She says, completely thrown off guard.

Harry just shrugs his shoulders, smirking at her from his position on the leather seat. He takes another swig from the bottle and Frankie tries not to stare at his bottom lip that has become shinier from the liquor.

“I’m the one meant to be interviewing you, Harry,” Frankie says shyly.

“What if I want to know more about you, Franks?” His gaze is unwavering and Frankie is sure he can see the flush working its way up her neck, before settling over her freckled cheeks.

Before she could respond or even begin to pry into the mysterious mind of the frontman of The Nocturnals, Frankie chances a glance over at the clock and sees that it’s 9:58.

Shit. Her mother.

“What?” Harry asks with a chuckle.

Shit. Frankie said that outloud.

“Nothing. I just have to go,” she says quickly, closing her notebook and tucking her pencil behind her right ear. She presses the pause button on her tape recorder, holding it tightly in her hand until her knuckles turn white.

“You have to leave? Already?” Harry’s eyes are wide at Frankie’s fumbling, and for once he’s actually confused that a girl who looks like her isn’t throwing herself at him.

“Yeah. Thanks for the interview, even though I can probably only quote a few words,” Frankie says offhandedly. She stands up and Harry follows suit. She’s not sure what type of parting she should give him, so she settles with an awkward wave, before running out of the dressing room and back through the steel door.

She can hear the honking of the Continental from the same illegal parking spot, and Frankie sighs as she starts picking up her speed on the loading dock, knowing that the longer she takes to reach her mother, the more frantic the honking will become.

“Frankie! Wait up!”

Frankie turns around and sees that Cherry and her wild blonde hair are running up to her. Frankie looks at Cherry’s hands, wondering if she had left something backstage. But when she’s standing in front of her, she is empty handed. Cherry reaches a small hand out and grabs the pencil behind Frankie’s ear, before stealing her notebook from her hand and flipping open to an empty page.

“You need to call me,” Cherry announces once she’s done scribbling her phone number down. She returns all of Frankie’s items back to their original place.

“Really?” Frankie asks, completely shocked. She couldn’t picture a world where a girl like Cherry would ever even consider being her friend.

“I need a new crowd,” Cherry says with a shrug.

Frankie just smiles, nodding her head with a promise to call her. She hears the Continental honking again but chooses to ignore it. Instead she watches Cherry walk backwards down the loading dock, giving Frankie the most infectious smile she’s ever seen.

“Can’t you feel it, Frankie?! It’s all happening!” Cherry’s arms are outstretched and she starts twirling around, before giving one last wink and walking through the steel door once again.

Frankie can feel it. It’s all happening.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 3

On Monday morning Frankie receives a call from Lester Bangs praising her for her review about The Nocturnals show. It went so well that Lester and the other music editors at Rolling Stone wanted to send Frankie on their West Coast tour for a month. They wanted her to follow the band on the road and write a featured article piece about the mysterious new British rock band that was taking over the industry by storm. It was scheduled to be printed in the middle of the magazine, spanning over three pages.

And they wanted Frankie to write it.

“How are you going to pay for it? Who will you stay with? Is it even safe?” Her mother asks after Frankie gets off the phone with Lester. He still didn’t know that she was an eighteen-year-old girl living with her mother. And her mother didn’t know that Lester offered to pay an eighteen-year-old girl still living with her mother a lot of money to write this piece.

It was just easier that way.

“The magazine will cover my hotel expenses. I’d obviously stay with the band, but in my own room. It’ll be safe, you know me—I stay out of trouble,” Frankie says, answering each of her mother’s questions one by one.

“But, Francine, how will you—”

“—It’s my dream, mom.” Cynthia Goodhart purses her lips. She’s thinking so hard that Frankie can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. After a few moments, her mother walks over and hugs her tight.

“You better call me every night. I want to know where you are and know that you’re safe. And for the love of god please—”

“—No drugs,” Frankie finishes for her mother. She hugs her back even tighter.

Three days later, Frankie’s mother has just dropped her off at Long Beach Arena in Los Angeles. Her duffle bag is swung over her shoulder, and for the first time in her eighteen years of living, Frankie Goodhart is alone.

And she’s shocked at how excited she is.

The Nocturnals are scheduled to play a gig at the arena tonight, and Frankie remembers her instructions. She’s meant to seek out their manager, Bryan Greenberg, and retrieve her all access pass for the next month. Then, he’ll show her the hotel accommodations, give her a room key, and she’s off to start her assignment.

The band has been informed of her role. She remembers Lester telling her that a few of them were not keen on the idea of having a journalist follow them around for a month, but after hearing that they were going to be featured in the next publication of the magazine, their outlook immediately changed.

“Rockstars,” Lester said over the phone, “They’ll do anything for some decent fuckin’ press.”

On her way into the arena, Frankie bypasses a behemoth of a vehicle. It’s monstrous and gunmetal grey and looks like it’s about to fall apart at any moment, and when she squints she can make out the lettering spelling BERNIE on the side near the door. It reeks of marijuana and booze and she can only assume that this is their tour bus.

Before she can continue to walk by, she hears her voice.

“Frankie!” It’s Cherry and Frankie is surprised that she’s actually happy to see the tall blonde girl. She’s wearing another outrageous assortment of clothing, full of frilly layers and white patent leather. Her lips are stained red and she’s wearing opaque pink sunglasses and when she wraps her thin arms around Frankie’s neck, she instantly hugs her back.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Cherry says, and Frankie’s glad too.

When they untangle themselves, Cherry grabs onto Frankie’s arm and drags her towards the arena, mumbling something about the lingering smell of sex inside of Bernie. Frankie doesn’t bother to ask her what she means, instead allows Cherry to drag her inside the venue.

Frankie tells her that she has to find Bryan and Cherry just shakes her head, explaining to her that Bryan isn’t any fun before five o’clock. Frankie takes her word for it, and not long after have the two entered a backstage area filled with tables and chairs and an assortment of food. Various crew members lounge about eating craft services, and as her eyes sweep over the room, she sees the band in the far corner.

“The enemy is approaching,” Frankie hears Eddie call out ominously from the table. Veronica and Rod snicker beside him, and Frankie tries not to let their words affect her.

She has a job to do.

Cherry shushes them before sitting next to Rod, running her fingers through his long blonde hair that falls past his shoulders. Frankie watches them, fully aware that the only reason Cherry is here is because she’s sleeping with the bassist. But then she remembers her conversation with Cherry’s friends outside of The Troubadour, and she pushes those feelings deep down, only hoping for Cherry’s sake that Rod cares about her the same way she cares about him, even though he has a rumored fiancée back home.

Frankie is trying not to judge.

Before she can say anything, she hears shuffling behind her. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up because in front of her is four-fifths of the band, so that only leaves Harry, who has suddenly appeared behind her. Frankie hates that she can feel his presence before she can actually see him, and when he gives her a throaty hello, she can practically see the goosebumps prickling her skin.

“Heard you were comin’. Glad you’re here, Franks.” Frankie is fully aware that Cherry’s eyes are on her, and all she can do is stare at her new friend, completely out of her own element.

“Hi, Harry,” Frankie offers shyly, finally allowing him to enter her frame.

Before she could examine him fully, another man approaches the table. He’s shorter than Harry, a stocky little man with a permanent frown etched onto his face. His hair is thinning, practically balding in some spots, and he looks utterly exhausted.

“You the journalist?” He asks Frankie. His accent is high-pitched and squeaky, and Frankie blinks once, twice, before realizing that he’s actually addressing her.

“Yeah, hi. Frankie Goodhart.” She extends her arm even though he makes no effort to try and shake it. Frankie suddenly feels small, even though she’s taller than the man in front of her. His eyes are raking up and down her body, and Frankie squirms under his gaze.

“Christ, Rolling Stone hires kids now?” He chuckles to himself and Frankie really wishes the ground would swallow her up right then and there.

“Enough Bryan. They wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t good, right?” Harry comments, finally taking the spotlight off of Frankie. She’s grateful that the attention is off of her now. All she wants to do is start gathering quotes for her piece.

If only things could be that easy.

***

The show was once again incredible. Frankie watched from backstage, standing on Cherry’s side. She followed her advice again, only jotting down pivotal moments in her notebook. Most of the show, she spent mouthing along to the lyrics.

She didn’t want to admit that she was a fan.

“You can’t let them know you’re into their stuff,” Lester told her on the phone three days earlier. “They’re gonna want to buy you shit, be your friend. All of that. You can’t let that happen. Once they’ve got you, you’re fucked.”

After the show is over, the backstage area of the arena is buzzing with people. Cherry’s friends showed up right after the opening act was finished, and currently they were traipsing around the green room as if they owned the place. Jett sat sandwiched between two of them, sharing a joint and sips of champagne right from the bottle. Frankie had just finished talking to Veronica, who surprisingly was a vessel of knowledge. Before she could finish making her rounds, Rod storms in angrily, with an annoyed Harry trailing behind him.

“You really had to stay out on stage the longest when we were giving our bows, Harry?” Rod asks, and suddenly the entire room begins to grow quiet.

“What’s going on?” Bryan asks.

“Fuckin’ Harry’s out here craving all the attention, that’s what’s going on! And you’re so far up his ass you can’t even see it!” Rod’s full on screaming now, and all Frankie can do is just sit and watch.

“Everybody says ‘oh look, it’s Harry’s band! Look how talented Harry’s band is! As if we’re not a fuckin’ unit!” Frankie watches as Harry’s eyes grow darker. Bryan is trying to calm Rod down, but it’s no use. He’s completely uncaged.

Before he can say anything else, his eyes suddenly fall onto Frankie’s.

“I’m not sayin’ anything else with the enemy around.” It’s final, absolute. The words resonate in her brain and for the first time since arriving, Frankie’s second-guessing taking this job in the first place.

Rod storms out after that, and Frankie tries to ignore the green eyes trying to search for hers. She doesn't want the attention right now. What she wants is to retreat back into her hotel room and reevaluate how the next month of her life will go.

While everybody else heads back to the hotel, Frankie notices that Harry stays back, choosing to spend the night in the bus.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 4

The entire bus ride to Tempe, Arizona is uncomfortable.

Tensions are still high from Rod and Harry’s fight after the show in Long Beach last night, and Frankie watches as they sit on opposite sides of the bus, eyes covered in sunglasses facing the windows.

Eddie sits close to Harry, automatically taking his side because he’s his older brother. It makes sense, and Frankie watches it all unravel in her seat beside Cherry. She’s thankful that the blonde girl has decided to sit with her instead of Rod, because Frankie is still struggling with fitting in. This whole enemy ordeal is really starting to make things difficult for her.

Once they hit a rest stop, Jett offers Frankie some of his potato chips and for the rest of the ride he talks to her about music and the process of recording their first album. Veronica joins in, recounting the story of how she joined the band after watching them play a show in Phoenix.

“They were decent,” she tells Frankie, her American accent standing out.

“She makes us better,” Jett says, nodding at Veronica appreciatively.

In the dressing room before the Tempe show, battle lines are drawn up. Harry and Eddie stand on one side, chain-smoking cigarettes and keeping to themselves. Rod and Cherry sit on the other side, and Frankie watches as Cherry soothes Rod’s anger by running her small fingers down his back. Veronica and Jett play the roles of peacemakers, alternating between each side, trying to get everybody in the mindset for a great show.

And as Frankie watches from the sidelines, she’s shocked that it is in fact a great show.

During their last song, Frankie watches Harry grab the water bottle resting on the riser where Jett’s drum set was. She almost misses the dramatic eye roll Rod gives him, seemingly annoyed at whatever Harry was planning on doing. As the lights are dimmed low and Eddie starts playing a riff, Frankie watches Harry fill his cheeks with water.

He can feel her gaze on him. As soon as Jett starts hitting the kick drum, Harry’s green eyes meet Frankie’s. He gives her a quick wink before turning over towards the crowd, leaning back on his legs and spitting the water up into the air as the instruments all clash together.

Frankie tries to ignore the tingling beneath her skin.

After the post-show adrenaline rush has worn off, The Nocturnals retreat back to their pre-show state. Eddie tries to entertain Harry while the rest of the band keep Rod as far away from him as possible. Frankie just observes, scribbling notes down in her journal, before Cherry approaches her cautiously.

“Do you think you could do me a favor, Frankie?” Cherry asks. Her voice is soft and her eyes show a little bit of apprehension, and Frankie immediately snaps her journal shut.

“Of course. Everything okay, Cherry?” Frankie is concerned because for the first time since being introduced to Cherry, she’s asking Frankie for help.

“Could you talk to Harry, maybe? He seems to be fond of you. Maybe you can get through to him about the whole Rod situation.” Frankie suddenly understands that the only reason Cherry is concerned about Harry is because Rod is involved.

“Uh, I don’t know if I’m really the best person—”

“—The thing is, they’re both alphas. Harry takes control and Rod doesn’t know how to function without it. They need each other, Frankie. The band needs them. Sometimes it’s tough getting through to Harry, but do you think you could try it just this time? For me?”

Frankie doesn’t know how to say no to people. Which is why she finds herself approaching Harry outside of the hotel while the rest of the band grab beers from Bryan’s cooler and stretch out around the pool outside of the building.

“I don’t want to do the interview right now, Franks,” Harry says quietly once he realizes that Frankie has stayed back to chat with him.

“We can just talk. Completely off the record,” Frankie says, throwing her journal and tape recorder deep into the depths of her messenger bag around her body.

Harry looks at her with his eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah? So what, we’re just gonna talk as friends?” He’s teasing her now and Frankie just rolls her eyes.

“If that’s what you’d like, sure. Friends,” Frankie agrees, surprisingly meaning every word.

“Alright. Come with me.” Harry leads them to a quieter area away from the pool. It’s a makeshift smoking area, and when Harry reaches into his denim pocket for his pack of Winstons and offers one to Frankie, she shakes her head no. Harry gives her another long look before shrugging his shoulders and lighting the stick between his cherry lips.

“Are you here to try and make me feel better?” Harry asks smugly.

Frankie shakes her head, growing annoyed. “No. Cherry just asked if I could—”

“—Oh so Cher put you up to this?” Harry interrupts, and Frankie has decided that this is just something she has to get used to around him. The constant interrupting, constant avoidance of questions, constant staring.

Frankie just sighs. She’s not quite sure why Cherry thinks Harry is fond of her, considering they can barely get through a conversation without him ignoring her questions and directing them towards Frankie instead.

They’re quiet for a few minutes. Harry finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out with the sole of his boots before Frankie opens her mouth.

“Why do you put up with it?” It’s quiet and she’s not sure if she should have even asked him that in the first place, but she’s curious.

“I thought this wasn’t an interview?”

“It’s not. Off the record, strictly.”

Harry stands up straighter, no longer leaning on the fence surrounding the smoking area. His shoulders turn so he’s standing directly in front of Frankie, eyes falling past her uncovered shoulders to her thin yellow tank top, before falling down the lengths of her ivory legs under her jean shorts. She screams of innocence and Harry suddenly feels like he can drop his rockstar façade and finally be truthful for once in his life.

“I do it because I have to,” Harry says slowly.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Harry,” Frankie replies, blue eyes staring deep into green.

Harry just laughs to himself quietly, shaking his head.

“Sometimes you have to do things because they’re expected of you. Like love, for instance.” He’s speaking as if he has all of the answers in the world and Frankie can’t quite fathom how that could possibly be true.

”What do you mean?”

“Well. You’re expected to love your boyfriend, right?” Harry’s asking her in a way that doesn’t come across as fishing for information. Frankie suddenly wonders if he thought she was the type of girl that would have a boyfriend. That she was capable of enthralling the other sex.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Frankie’s suddenly shy, and Harry looks at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time.

“Well, any of your boyfriends. You were expected to love them.” Harry doesn’t need Frankie to tell her that she actually has never had a boyfriend in her entire life. Her silence tells him more than he needs to know, and Frankie hopes he can’t see her fidgeting under the moonlight.

“I wouldn’t know.” Frankie says it so quietly that Harry almost missed the words leaving her lips. He suddenly feels his age for the first time—twenty-three and hyperaware of the pretty girl with freckles on her face who has never been in love before.

“You’ve never been in love?” He sounds shocked, and Frankie starts wondering if there’s something wrong with that. Sure, she’s had a few opportunities to try and fall in love, and sure, she was almost close to it with her prom date a few months prior, but the truth still stands. It’s a feeling that Frankie’s heard endless times play over in the songs on her record player.

It’s the one question that she’s never found the answer to in Mary’s collection.

“Not truly, no. I mean, every song I’ve ever heard has talked about love as if it’s supposed to be this monumental explosion of feelings. It’s supposed to be all-encompassing. We’re supposed to crave it, chase after it, live for it. So when you say that you’re expected to love another person, I don’t know what you mean. Because you shouldn’t be expected to do something that’s supposed to consume you.”

Frankie chances a look over towards Harry and finds that his eyes aren’t set on hers. Instead, they’re looking over her head, fixated on the trees behind her. He has a distant look in his eyes as if he understands exactly what Frankie is telling him.

Suddenly, his eyes lock back on hers. But this time, the glint is gone. Instead he looks sad almost, nodding absently at whatever Frankie had just said.

Frankie has another sleepless night.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 5

Frankie began to grow quite fond of Bernie on the drive from Tempe to Las Vegas.

Somehow, The Nocturnals had a strong affinity for the nearly broken down grey touring bus they’ve been sequestered to for the past few months. Jett proclaimed that Bernadette had magical powers, and they preferred to travel to each venue by bus because they performed much better after sitting in the bristling heat for hours on end.

Frankie thinks that Jett needs to lay off the weed.

Each band member had their own little corner of the bus. Eddie always preferred the middle so he could jump from conversation to conversation wherever he was needed. He didn’t like feeling left out. Veronica was happy towards the front as long as she always had a window. She always said her lack of a penis allowed her prime window seating. Nobody disagreed.

Rod liked the back of the bus because that was where he could sneak off and make out with Cherry without anybody else watching. Sometimes he would sneak his hand down her skirt and Cherry would giggle as if he was telling her the funniest joke in the world. Harry on the other hand always chose to sit in the front seat behind Bryan who was always driving. It was an unwritten rule that nobody else could sit there. It was also an unwritten rule that Harry always needed to be close to Bryan.

That is where Frankie finds him when they’re about twenty minutes away from the Las Vegas Convention Center. His long body is taking up two seats with his head leaning against the glass window. He has his black sunglasses on but Frankie can see that his eyes are open through the tinted frames.

“Starin’ is impolite, Franks,” Harry says after a few moments.

Frankie blushes, looking down at the floor. “I’m still waiting for your interview, Harry.”

He shuffles a bit while he’s mulling this over. In the two week span of Frankie’s time on tour with the band, she’s gotten one on one interviews with everybody but Harry. Whenever she attempts to reach out to him, he always wanders off. Lately, he’s been switching the roles and asking her questions instead.

She doesn’t like feeling vulnerable around him.

And with her deadline approaching soon and the final three shows looming in the distance, Frankie was starting to grow impatient.

“After the show. I promise,” Harry says, before turning his attention back out towards the window.

Frankie ignores Cherry’s gaze as she slinks into the seat in the back left of the bus. But Cherry is anything but adamant, and not even ten seconds later, Frankie can feel the tips of her blonde curly hair grazing Frankie’s exposed shoulders.

“He’s making this extremely difficult,” Frankie admits, slumping down further into the seat.

Cherry nods. “Give him time, Frankie. He’ll come around eventually.”

Frankie only wishes that were true.

***

The show in Vegas is nothing short of a disaster.

Frankie notices the mistakes more so than the audience members mainly because she’s been watching The Nocturnals perform the same show for two weeks now. From the second they walked onto the stage, there was a disconnect amongst the band members. Jett and Veronica did the best they could trying to appease both Harry and Rod, but it began to crumble halfway through their set. Rod began to overdue his solos, throwing the timing off for Harry. The worst part was when he started oversinging the backing vocals, almost making Harry sing the wrong lyrics.

The dressing room was quiet after the show. And for the first time since touring with the band, Frankie had no desire to ask anybody questions.

“Well guys, that was—”

“—A fuckin’ shitshow,” Harry says, interrupting Bryan.

Eddie stands closer to Harry, trying to calm his little brother down. Everybody knows that it was bound to happen, because Eddie always puts Harry first. But this seemed to spur Rod on, because immediately after Eddie puts an arm around Harry, Rod flies out of his seat and points an accusatory finger at the both of them.

“I’m so fuckin’ sick of you two. Every time there’s a disagreement, Harry is never at fault in your eyes, Ed. It’s about fuckin’ time you realize that your brother is singlehandedly ruining this band.” Rod’s words are venomous and Frankie practically flinches with each syllable.

“Well, maybe if you stopped being so jealous of H, we wouldn’t have this problem!” Eddie retorts, stepping in front of Harry and squaring his shoulders towards Rod.

“Jealous?! Of that prick? That’s fuckin’ rich.”

The rest of the argument seems to blow up in front of Frankie, but for some unknown reason, she chooses not to stare at Rod and Eddie yelling at each other in the middle of the room. Instead, her blue eyes fall onto Harry, who hasn’t said a word throughout this entire exchange. He looks as if he wants to be anywhere but here, and as if he can feel the heat of Frankie’s gaze on him, he tilts his head towards her and stares right back.

“If you don’t get your ego in line, Harry, I’m fuckin’ walking,” Rod says. Frankie watches Harry’s eyes snap back towards the bassist, and instead of responding, he just shakes his head slowly. Suddenly, Harry starts careening towards the exit, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and Frankie in the other.

“Harry…” Frankie says, but it’s useless. He’s walking so quickly and swallowing back whiskey so fiercely that Frankie has no choice but to hold onto his hand tighter and allow him to lead her out of the arena, past Bernie, and down a few roads until the flashing lights are fading into the distance and the honking of vehicles has practically ceased.

Frankie isn’t sure what to say because up until this point she hadn’t really considered her and Harry friends. Their conversation in Tempe only made Frankie more confused, and every time Cherry tells her of Harry’s fondness of her, she thinks that her friend is seeing things.

But now, standing hand in hand with him, Frankie begins to think differently.

His hands are shaking when he drops hers, and instead of speaking, he just takes another swig of the bottle. His cheeks are flushed and Frankie isn’t sure if it’s from the alcohol or something else, and then before she can dissect him any further, he stops abruptly and turns to face her.

“Do you ever feel like you need to get away? Like things are just happenin’ too quickly?” He’s back to asking her questions again, and Frankie isn’t sure how to respond.

“Shit, I shouldn’t be tellin’ you any of this.” He suddenly runs the hand that used to hold hers through his curly hair out of frustration. Harry starts pacing back and forth in front of Frankie, and she’s very aware that they are far from the venue.

“It’s fine, I won’t—” Frankie cuts herself off because she isn’t quite sure what she’s trying to tell him. She already promised to talk to him off the record back in Tempe, and deep down she really wants to tell him this again. But she’s losing focus on her assignment, and she’s doing everything that Lester Bangs told her not to do.

Harry’s green eyes are back on hers and he’s suddenly a lot closer to her than he was previously. But before he could say anything, a car pulls up and his eyes shift from blue to the approaching vehicle.

“Whoa, you’re Harry Styles!” A boy with straight blonde hair says. He’s driving a car and looks to be a few years younger than Frankie, and the rest of his friends seem to be as shell-shocked as the driver.

“Just Harry, s’fine,” Harry replies, stepping away from Frankie and smiling at the group of boys.

“Would you wanna come to a party? My parents are out of town and my house is down the street,” the blonde kid offers. Immediately, Frankie starts to shake her head, expecting Harry to follow suit. Instead, she bafflingly watches as Harry grins at the group before jumping into the backseat of the car.

“Harry!” Frankie shoots out, beginning to chastise him.

“C’mon Franks, let’s have some fun,” Harry says, grabbing her from the sidewalk and pulling her into the van. The group of boys cheer and begin asking Harry a million questions, but it might as well be white noise because Frankie’s eyes are looking into green and she finds herself agreeing to this ridiculous plan because she’s found that she can’t say no to Harry no matter how hard she tries.

And when he hands her the whiskey bottle and promises that she’ll like it, she drinks it without even thinking, smiling back at Harry when his eyes go wide.

***

A few hours later, Frankie finds that Harry is impossibly drunk. He’s stumbling throughout a high school party, fluttering from the living room to the kitchen and back. The teenagers are handing him plastic cups filled with a concoction of various liquors, and while Frankie has only had one cup, it was enough to make her feel warm and light, so she stopped after that.

She has just walked out of the bathroom when she realizes that Harry is not where she had left him. Nervously, Frankie begins checking each room in the house, praying that she didn’t just lose the frontman of The Nocturnals at a high school party in Las Vegas. Once she rounds the stairs, she hears his laugh from the first door to her left, and when she walks in she finds him sitting on a desk chair surrounded by a group of kids with glazed eyes and a bong sitting in the middle of a circle.

“And that is why you shouldn’t mix acid with vodka. It’s just—Franks! There you are! Thought I lost ya.” Harry blindly reaches out for Frankie’s hand, pulling her towards the group. She stumbles until she’s sitting right beside him, and he’s grinning at her with a mischievous look in his eyes.

“I made new friends,” he says softly, gesturing towards the group of stoned teenagers on the floor below him.

“I can see that,” Frankie responds, seemingly unaware of their close proximity. Harry’s arm is resting lightly around her shoulders, and if she leans in just an inch more, she could smell the whiskey on his lips.

“Maybe I’ll start a band with them. What d’ya think? They’d probably be more fun, anyways,” he mumbles, his slurred words meshing together.

Frankie isn’t sure what to say, so instead she just drunkenly laughs, standing up when Harry grabs her arm and leads her out of the room and into the backyard.

They walk further until they’re sitting at the top of a hill under a mesquite tree. The party is barrelling on below them, and when Frankie looks up at the sky and notices that the inky night has turned into a deep blue, she can assume that it’s the early morning.

Harry sighs contentedly beside her, sitting down close enough that their sides are touching. Frankie can feel his hip rest with hers, her shoulder pressed against his bicep, their thighs touching. The warmth from the alcohol flowing through her body suddenly becomes warmer, and Frankie can feel the flush on her neck begin to creep upwards.

“I never get to do this,” Harry says after a few minutes of silence.

“Do what?” Frankie asks.

“Act like a kid. Drink with my mates in our parents house. Be young, I guess.” Frankie cocks her head to the side and acknowledges the sadness on his features. She’s suddenly aware of the fact that Harry is the youngest in the band but never gets to feel like it because he’s constantly on the road, working with people much older than him, arguing about ridiculous things that shouldn’t matter in the long run.

She begins to feel bad for the rockstar who she believed had everything.

“You really didn’t miss much,” Frankie says, nodding her head towards the group of high school students surrounding a keg.

“No? Isn’t high school supposed to be the best years of your life or summat?” Harry asks, genuine curiosity dripping from his mouth.

Frankie just shrugs. “I sure hope not.”

Harry shifts his position and Frankie misses the warmth when she can no longer feel his body pressed against hers. His big hands reach out towards her forearms and pull so that she twists to the side, their knees knocking together. Harry’s sitting in front of her and his eyes are twinkling brighter than the stars and Frankie isn’t sure where else to look.

“Why are you so different from every other girl I’ve met?” Harry asks. Frankie tilts her head down, trying to hide the blush forming on her cheeks. She feels Harry squeeze her forearms, and she’s suddenly aware that his hands haven’t left hers.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Frankie says shyly.

His hand reaches out towards her chin, tilting it up so that she’s no longer hiding from him. Frankie watches his heels dig into the grass, allowing him to heave himself forward so that their legs are slotting, his knees surrounding hers. They’re much closer now, and she can see the glint in his eyes has turned into adoration and she suddenly feels frozen.

“Frankie Goodhart,” he whispers, “That would make for a good song.”

His fingers drop from her chin and Frankie can feel him getting closer. He’s angling his torso towards her and his shiny lips are getting closer to hers and she’s instantly panicking because shit, she thinks, this shouldn’t be happening.

And just before his mouth can close around hers, she backs away, and the look in Harry’s eyes fades. Instead, he’s staring at her, dull green eyes and all, and she suddenly feels empty inside. He stands up abruptly and begins walking down the hill back towards the street. Even in his drunken stupor, Harry somehow remembers how to get back to the carpark where Bernie is waiting with the rest of the band. They’re silent as they walk into the bus, the yellows and purples of sunrise filtering through the windows.

Harry chooses to sit near Rod, a sign of a truce. Frankie sits in the back, ignoring the looks Cherry gives her. For once, she just wants to be alone.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 6

Everybody besides Frankie seemed to be in high spirits on the journey to the San Jose Civic Center. The feud between Harry and Rod seemed to be an anecdote, something they could joke about during the long drive. Frankie watches from the back of the bus, a permanent scowl on her face, completely confused at the last ten hours of her life.

She was confused by the almost kiss, for starters. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss Harry, because of course she wanted to. But when his mouth was inching closer towards hers and his irises were so wide all she could see was mossy green, the only thing running through her mind were Lester’s warnings.

“Don’t get lost in the madness of it all. They’re gonna eat you alive if they know that you’re a fan. They’re gonna want to be your friend, lure you into their world. Stand your ground. The second they hear you write for Rolling Stone they’re gonna shit their pants. Don’t let us down.”

So she panicked. And when Frankie saw the frown on his face, she could feel her heart fall towards her feet inside her body. Frankie was never the type of girl that boys chased after, especially boys that have the world at their fingertips with blonde/auburn/black haired beauties throwing themselves at him. What would Harry want with a freckled-face eighteen year old high school graduate who had little to no experience with the opposite sex? It would be utterly laughable for the two of them to end up together.

But she would be lying if she hadn’t been kicking herself the entire journey to San Jose, regretting ever pulling away from him.

“Why are you so pouty?” Cherry asks from beside her. She opted to sit with Frankie mainly because Rod and Harry were rekindling their friendship with inside jokes and bottles of beer, and Frankie wasn’t all that mad that she was a second option.

“I’m not,” Frankie lies, sinking her head against the cool window. She needed her brain to stop replaying this morning's events over and over whenever her eyelids closed.

Cherry just hums beside her, knowing fully well that Frankie is lying. “I’m assuming it has something to do with Harry. He’s been looking at you like a lost puppy ever since we turned onto the freeway hours ago.”

Frankie ignores her friend the same way she’s been ignoring the warm heat of Harry’s gaze from the front of the bus.

She needs the silence to remember why she was even here in the first place. But there’s no denying that she’s so close to losing the point in the first place—feet dangling at the edge of the mountain, practically about to freefall below.

***

The San Jose show was the best one Frankie had seen yet, even better than the first night at The Troubadour three weeks earlier. The energy radiating from the stage was tangible, a thrumming of excitement Frankie could feel from the tips of her toes all the way up to the roots of her light brown hair. If she reached out to touch the handle of the steel door leading to the green room, she was convinced she would feel a zap of electricity from what The Nocturnals left out on the stage.

Harry was the best she had seen him yet. His voice was unmatchable, a perfect concoction of rasp and grit with a beautiful falsetto. Frankie was in awe, to be fair. Normally she takes turns watching each member of the band, but tonight, her blue eyes refused to move from his body.

Harry could feel her gaze. With Frankie’s eyes locked on him, he knew that he had to put on the best show of his life. He made sure to interact with the crowd, singing in a different octave so he could hear the gasps from the audience, leaning against Rod and Eddie with his head thrown back, shaking his hips to the pounding of Jett’s kick drum. Frankie’s hot gaze on Harry gave him a newfound sense of confidence, and it was palpable throughout the entire arena.

“What a fuckin’ show!” Bryan hollers from the doorway of the green room. Frankie watches as he interacts with each member of the band, even offering to take a hit of the joint Jett extends towards him. Rod even gives him a hug, and Frankie is just as confused as ever.

“Let’s celebrate!” Rod agrees, grabbing Cherry by her hips and bringing her towards his front. He drowns her giggles with a bottle of whiskey.

The band convenes in the middle of the green room, passing around a whiskey bottle and planning on throwing an after party in their hotel rooms. Eddie asks Bryan to upgrade their rooms so they can fit more people, and Jett agrees, telling Cherry’s friends to invite anybody in the area they know. Frankie ultimately feels like an outsider, having no desire to go out and drink with people who barely even wanted her around in the first place.

As she begins to gather her belongings and throw them into her tattered messenger bag to retreat to her own hotel room for the night, Frankie sees the tips of black leather shoes touch her white sneakers. She looks up slowly, her breath practically catching in her throat when she notices Harry peering down at her, a faint trace of a smile on his lips.

“Fancy that interview, Franks?” Harry says softly, and Frankie suddenly is at a loss for words. She’s unsure if it’s from his close proximity to her face, or the fact that he actually is ready to allow her to interview him, but she just nods slowly.

“You don’t want to party? I think you earned it,” Frankie mutters back, offering him an out.

Harry doesn’t take it though. “Nah, let’s get out of here,” and with that, he loops her messenger bag around his broad shoulder and places a large hand at the small of her back, tracing her out the door.

Frankie offers to conduct the interview inside Bernie, but Harry just shakes his head, “I’m sick of sittin’ on the bus.” When she mentions her hotel room being on a different floor than the rest of the band’s, Harry just wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, “Tryin’ to take me to bed already?” Frankie just rolls her eyes, wishing her skin was a darker shade so her blush wasn’t so prominent. Harry smiles, enamored that he can get her riled up so quickly, and drags her towards a small staircase on the top floor, a sign reading NO ENTRY in bright red letters.

Frankie pauses and Harry just laughs, opening the door with his hip and grabbing her wrists with his long fingers. “Live a little, Franks,” he whispers, dragging her up the staircase and onto the roof of the hotel.

The dark sky looks so vast from the roof, and Frankie cranes her neck back to take in all of the glittering stars above. She never gets to see the constellations through the LA smog, so from this vantage point, Frankie doesn’t hesitate to take it all in, her hair shining in the moonlight.

Harry doesn’t hesitate to take Frankie in, either.

“Ready, Franks?” Harry’s voice bursts Frankie’s imaginary bubble, and she fumbles around trying to grab her notebook and recorder before sitting across from Harry over a skylight. She doesn’t meet his eyes because she’s scared that if she does, she’ll forget everything she wanted to ask him.

“So, Harry. Why music?”

And it’s as if a dam has broken, split completely in half, and Harry’s words are the water that flows from the cracks. He tells Frankie that he started the band with his brother in small town Manchester, England, and they were shit at first. Tells her how the idea of a band came from the 1961 Ice Blue Fender Musicmaster their dad left behind when he left his mother when Harry was a boy. How the first few songs he wrote were about his fear of abandonment, and when he lost his virginity, all he could write about were girls and hearts and lips and feelings. He tells her things that Frankie didn’t even need to pry from him, instead, he willingly tells her how he was nervous to have five members in a band, nervous to leave England, nervous to be the frontman of a group when he was the youngest one. And when they were sat on the forty-fifth floor of a high-rise building with walls of windows in New York City, signing their recording contracts, Harry never felt more out of control in his life.

“You seem to be so confident on stage though, so in control. I mean, you just look so cool up there,” Frankie mumbles, realizing that she isn’t asking a question anymore. Instead she’s prodding for more information that she isn’t sure Harry feels comfortable doting out to her.

“I promise you, I’m entirely uncool. It’s all an act. I’m far too in my head most of the time,” Harry says with a chuckle, shifting his body closer to Frankie’s. “Sometimes, I think you’re the only person in this world who’s seen me properly. I’m just as uncool as you.”

Frankie feels herself shifting closer, too. Her finger unknowingly hovering over the STOP button on her tape recorder.

Harry notices just like he notices everything about her. He can feel the shift in their conversation, and he turns his body closer towards Frankie, asking her the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue the entire day.

“Why didn’t you let me kiss you?”

His voice is uncharacteristically shy. Frankie’s never seen this version of him—so quiet, so unsure. It startles her.

“Um,” she pauses, pressing her finger down on the button, her mind suddenly confuddled. “I’m technically not supposed to.”

“Franks,” Harry shakes his head, his mouth practically inches from hers. “When are you gonna realize life is more fun when you do the things you aren’t supposed to?”

With his mouth so close to hers, Frankie feels like she can’t breathe. His eyes are sincere and she can feel her heart beating so loudly she’s sure her ribs are bruised. And for the first time in forever, Frankie doesn’t want to follow the rules anymore.

She wants to break them.

Specifically, she wants to break them with Harry.

Frankie brazenly drops the tape recorder into her messenger bag at her feet and wraps her hands around Harry’s neck, bringing his lips to hers. He stills at first, not entirely sure if this is actually happening or he’s just imagining her kissing him. But then she starts to nibble at his lower lip and he finally reacts, wrapping one hand into her brown hair and another around her stomach, fingers spread over the ivory skin uncovered by her cropped shirt.

Frankie shudders when Harry whines at the contact, and when he feels like he needs more more more, he drags her legs and hoists them over his thighs so she’s straddling his lap. Their teeth knock together hungrily and it’s literally better than anything Harry’s ever had, and he’s had almost everything there is. Harry feels dehydrated, and Frankie’s lips are the only thing quenching his thirst. He’s never been so enraptured by another person before, and just having her body wrapped around his is practically careening him towards the edge.

When Harry’s hand in her hair pulls back exposing her neck towards him, she moans when his lips lick a thick strip from her sternum towards her chin. She tries to think of love songs that explain how she’s feeling, and when her mind becomes blank, she figures that they can write their own song, fuelled by pink lips and hungry bites and satisfied breaths.

“Jesus, Franks. You’re everything,” Harry mumbles against her lips. Frankie just nods, her hands pushing open his unbuttoned shirt and fanning against his chest. When his head falls back in a blissful sigh, Frankie marks the part of his skin where his shoulder meets his neck, and she can feel it too. That this is everything.

When Harry tries to take her shirt off and lower his hands into the waistband of her jeans, she stops, fully aware that this is her first time ever having somebody this close to her. Of having somebody want to get this close to her, to feel her, to have her in every sense of the word. And she’s terrified.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Franks. I blacked out, I forgot. You’re just—fuck. Can’t fuckin’ think straight when you’re lookin’ at me like that with your mouth all pouty and your hair all messed up. I’m losin’ it,” Harry says hurriedly, his forehead falling against her clavicle. He’s completely breathless and Frankie is in awe that she brought him to this point.

When she feels his hands running a comforting line down her back, she’s fully aware that she wants nothing more than to feel closer to Harry. It’s inevitable at this point—all of the lingering gazes, the interrupting questions, the way he can feel her gaze on him when he’s performing, the way she doesn’t want to look anywhere else. He wants to tell her his secrets. And she wants to keep them, hidden away from the world, just for her to hold.

So she reaches down and places her hand over Harry’s, dragging it down her chest and stomach, over her stomach, against the button of her pants. Harry sucks in a breath and Frankie can feel it against her neck, his lips pursing in shock.

“Frankie, it’s okay, we don’t—”

He’s silenced by her popping the button open and unzipping her jeans. His head shoots up, eyes latched onto hers, arms wrapped around her hips protectively.

Frankie shushes him with a gentle kiss. “It’s okay. You’re everything.”

And with that, Harry reaches inside of her pants, and the both of them fall apart, seeing stars that rival the constellations twinkling above them.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 7

Frankie spends the next day trying to quell the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

After her night with Harry on the rooftop, she feels as if she’s floating through thin air. She can’t stop the grin growing on her face whenever Harry is in a five foot radius of her, and she can practically feel his smirk from a distance. When they leave San Jose and travel to Palo Alto, Frankie practically forces her body to the back of the bus, trying to put as much space between them as possible.

Because if he was any closer, she wasn’t sure if she could keep her hands to herself.

Frankie has never felt like this. She feels as if Harry is her newest addiction, and no matter how hard she tries, she just can’t fucking stop thinking about him. It’s infuriating and infatuating at the same time, incredible and unknown and so new that she’s practically shaking in her seat from the excitement whenever his green eyes find hers.

Harry feels like he’s sixteen again. He feels so light and bubbly and giggly and the whole thing is reminiscent of a first crush, that he doesn’t even recognize who he is anymore. The most surprising aspect of it all is that he actually likes it. He feels his heart swell with every longing gaze, every secret smile, every phantom touch. He can’t get enough of her. Just one taste of Frankie wasn’t enough to soothe his ever-growing appetite, and he’s not sure if he can contain himself any longer.

After an entire day of almost touching her skin, Harry feels like he’s about to burst. Twenty minutes before the show, while the rest of the band is warming up, Harry finds himself sneaking off to find Frankie. She’s on her way back from the bathroom and when he sees her he practically jumps out of his skin, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her into a utility closet across the hallway.

Harry quiets her shrieks with a mouth-watering kiss, and he practically implodes at the feeling of it. He’s been waiting for this moment all day, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit that it was the best kiss of his life.

His hands are everywhere and Frankie feels overwhelmed, but in the best possible way. She’s breathing him in and feeling every inch of his skin on hers and it’s crazy to think that in her eighteen years of life she waited this long to experience this feeling.

She’s just so happy she’s experiencing it with Harry.

When they hear Bryan give the five minute call, Frankie breaks away breathlessly, laughing when Harry whines at the loss of her lips on his.

“Just one more kiss please Franks,” Harry begs, wrapping his hands through her hair and pulling her closer to his mouth.

She obliges but only momentarily, before pushing him back towards the door.

“Go,” she whispers, biting her lower lip to conceal her giggles.

Harry just groans, holding onto her for dear life. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Franks.”

She watches him walk away, blowing him a kiss and laughing when he catches it and tucks it into the pocket of his trousers.

When Frankie goes to claim her spot sidestage, she’s interrupted by Cherry grabbing onto her shoulders. She can see the band rustling around in the background, grabbing their instruments and getting mic'd up, but Frankie can’t focus. Because Cherry’s eyes are blown out and she’s holding onto her so tightly and Frankie knows that whatever is about to come out of Cherry’s lips next is either going to be monumental or devastating.

“Frankie! I need to tell you something,” Cherry whispers through her brightening grin.

“What is it Cherry? Are you okay?” Frankie is worried.

“I’m amazing. Better than amazing, actually. I’m gonna tell Rod that I love him after the show. I’m gonna jump into his arms, tell him that he’s the only one for me, and that I’m so far in love with him that I can’t even breathe.”

Frankie sighs. It’s devastating.

“But… Cherry. What about his fiancée? Kids? Did you think this through?” Frankie asks, watching as her friend’s eyes fall and her mouth form a straight line. Frankie hasn’t seen this look on Cherry’s face since the night she almost called her a groupie. Immediately, Frankie feels the twisting feeling of guilt in her gut.

“He’s leaving them for me. He told me last night.” Cherry’s voice is so low that Frankie isn’t sure if she’s trying to convince her, or herself.

Frankie just shakes her head. “Cherry, you can’t think like that. How could he promise you something like that? You can’t just—”

“—I can’t just what, Frankie? What are you even trying to say? I love him! That should be enough! It’s always been enough!” Before Frankie could even get another word in, Cherry just shakes her head, stepping away from her. “I don’t even know why I bothered telling you. You wouldn’t even know what love is if it slapped you right in the face.”

Frankie pauses, mouth falling slack. “What are you even talking about?”

Cherry laughs, and for the first time, Frankie hates the sound of it. “Because you don’t even give it a chance. I see the way Harry looks at you, and all you do is keep your head down, ignoring the entire thing. All you care about is your stupid article. Well ya know what? At least I let Rod close enough to give love a chance.”

Frankie isn’t sure what to say. Part of her wants to tell Cherry about the night she had with Harry on the rooftop, or the words he spoke to her, or the way he grabbed her no less than five minutes ago. But she doesn’t. Because saying them in an argument makes it less genuine.

“Cherry, I’m just trying to help. You deserve better than Rod,” Frankie says, reaching for Cherry’s hands to squeeze in reassurance.

But Cherry just jumps back as if Frankie’s hands are scorching. “You know what, maybe you and Harry are perfect for each other. Both lonely and selfish.”

And with that, Cherry walks away, and Frankie hangs behind the crowd sidestage, feeling her chest constrict in anger. Cherry couldn’t be more wrong about Harry. He let her in, he told her things he promised he would never tell anybody else. Frankie would never let him near her if he acted the way Cherry just described.

So when the show is over and Frankie feels herself retreating back into the hotel without a word to anybody else, she practically combusts when Harry shows up at her room. His eyes are blown wide and he has concern written all across his face, because all he wanted to see after the show was her. Just as he’s about to ask if she was okay, Frankie grabs him by the back of his neck and drags him through the doorway, crashing her lips onto his.

“Franks, wait, babe, what’s goin’ on?” Harry asks between kisses, and Frankie just sighs, noticing the way her head clears and her heart feels lighter whenever he is close to her.

“I just don’t want to think right now. I need you,” Frankie says, and Harry practically drops through the floor when she utters those last three words.

I need you is the closest thing to I love you Harry has ever felt. Love to him always felt compulsory, a feeling that was expected between two people. He never had to work for it, and whenever he said the words, they never meant anything to him before.

So when he hears I need you fall from Frankie’s chapped lips, he’s floored at the way those words feel inside his chest. If words were tangible, they would be pumping the blood through his chest cavity, propelling his heart up up up until it was lodged into his throat.

He never thought I need you would mean more to him than I love you.

Not until now.

“I need you all the time,” Harry responds, grabbing Frankie and pulling her onto the bed. They kiss until they’re both only wearing their undergarments, Harry clad in tight white boxer briefs and Frankie wearing a boring nude bra and matching cheeky panties. They make her feel childlike, and she wishes that she owned something black and lacy and sexy.

But Harry could care less what she’s wearing. Just the fact that she’s laying next to him, completely opening him up until he could feel like he was properly breathing for the first time in three years is enough for him. And when they kiss until their lips feel bruised, Frankie just lays her head on his chest, revelling in the feeling of his warmth.

“Thank you,” Frankie whispers against his skin.

“For what?” Harry asks, running a finger absentmindedly through her hair. Just one touch is never enough for him.

“Being here. Being you.” It’s trivial and shouldn’t really mean much, but to Harry it means everything, and he sighs blissfully at the thought that just being himself was more than enough for this beautiful girl.

“God, Franks,” Harry says slowly, resting his chin against the top of Frankie’s head. “I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.”

And when she’s wrapped around Harry in every sense of the word, she can’t help but think that if this is how she were to spend the rest of her nights, she wouldn’t want it any other way.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 8

The term bittersweet comes to mind when Bernie rolls into the Fillmore in San Francisco.

Bitter because it’s her last show with The Nocturnals. Bitter because Cherry hasn’t looked at her in two hours, and she doesn’t want to leave with her friendship falling to pieces in front of her. Bitter because she feels like she’s truly found herself, and she doesn’t want this feeling to escape when she arrives back in Santa Monica. Bitter because she won’t be spending her nights wrapped with Harry anymore.

The sweet part is all Harry, Frankie hates to admit. His sweet smile, the taste of his sweet lips, the way his hands feel sweetly wrapped around Frankie’s middle, the way she won’t hear him say her sweet nickname Franks.

Frankie looks over towards her right and smiles at his sleeping frame tucked next to hers. Her heart practically stilled when he chose to sit near her in the back of the bus instead of his usual spot behind Bryan in the front. If anybody felt a certain way about it, nobody mentioned it, which made Frankie relax into the ripped leather seat. When Harry’s warm hand latched onto her thigh, Frankie’s heart almost stopped beating.

“Franks, ‘m tired. Can I use you as a pillow?” Harry asks, his voice thick with sleep.

Before Frankie could reply, Harry’s head was already resting in the crook of her neck, his chestnut curls ticking the underside of her chin. Frankie just smiles, knowing that this would probably be the last spare moment they have together before she has to leave after the show to write her piece for Rolling Stone.

“So soft. You’re the sweetest, Franks,” Harry mumbles before drifting off into sleep.

The hotel is conveniently across the street from the Fillmore, so while the band unloads their instruments, Frankie slinks into her hotel room to deposit her duffle bag and sort through the endless notes she had taken during her summer with the band. Most of them are scribbled in her notebook that was practically ripping from overuse, but the most important tidbits, the ones that Frankie didn’t want to forget, were written on bar napkins and setlist pages. On room service menus and gas station receipts. Frankie makes sure to stuff those into her folder, making sure they stay with her forever.

On her way back to the concert venue, Frankie hears screaming from the room Cherry and Rod share. Part of her wants to knock and make sure that her friend is okay, but after their last conversation, Frankie’s convinced that she’s probably the last person Cherry wants to see anyways. So she saunters back to the Fillmore, rushing to try and find Harry to lift her spirits once again.

But what she sees does the complete opposite.

Bleach blonde hair. Pretty red dress. Deep hazel eyes. Brand new patent leather pumps. A handbag that definitely cost more than the entire ensemble. Matching red lips.

Red lips that were attached to Harry’s.

Frankie freezes. She can feel her heart burst, but not in the way that it has been used to doing the past few days. Instead, it’s a painful burst. She can feel shards slice through her beating flesh, ripping her open and spluttering on the concrete flooring.

Suddenly green eyes are latched onto hers.

And suddenly, they’re the last thing she wants to see.

“Oh, hello! You must be the reporter everybody has been telling me about. Frankie, right? It’s so great to meet you! This is such a great opportunity for everybody,” the pretty girl is saying, but Frankie isn’t registering anything.

All she’s registering is Harry’s hands jumping away from the girl’s waist. His green eyes wide and pleading. His uncomfortable shuffling behind her.

Frankie snaps her mouth shut, trying her hardest to pull herself together. “Hi, yes. I’m Frankie. Nice to meet you, er…”

“Roslyn. I’m Harry’s girlfriend.”

Frankie tries her hardest to keep a straight face, but she’s practically breaking at the seams. She doesn’t even register two sets of feet stopping short behind her, doesn’t even acknowledge her shaky hand slipping into Roslyn’s, doesn’t even feel the heat of Harry’s eyes on hers, of everybody’s eyes on hers.

She feels like the biggest idiot in the world.

Before she could sink into the floor, Frankie feels a small hand settle on her back, blonde ringlets falling onto her bare shoulder. She shuffles back, feeling the warmth of Cherry’s embrace behind her. She knows that Cherry’s heard everything, and with one look into Frankie’s eyes, Cherry can see her reflection through the tears that threaten to fall.

“Frankie, did you bring the necklace you borrowed from me last night?” Cherry asks. It’s an out, an excuse to drag her away from the absolute nightmare unfolding in front of her. Frankie can barely shake her head back, instead she’s gripping onto her friend for dear life, feeling that if she wasn’t anchoring her into the cement flooring she’d be sinking.

“Wait, Cher! Franks, I—”

“—Don’t. We’ll see you after the show,” Cherry says. And for the first time since knowing her, Frankie shivers at the coldness dripping from her mouth.

The two girls don’t bother to hear a response. Instead, Cherry whips through the exit door of the venue and drags Frankie back into the comfort of her hotel room. Once she’s sitting on her flimsy mattress and the door is deadbolted, Frankie finally cries, painful sobs ripping through her chest. She hunches over, feeling her chest constrict at the lack of oxygen rushing through her respiratory system. But she doesn’t care. The hurt she felt watching Harry kiss another girl feels worse than this.

“Frankie, shush, it’s going to be okay,” Cherry says sadly, wrapping a thin arm around Frankie’s shoulders.

“It’s not going to be okay. Cherry, I can’t breathe. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Wait, I should be apologizing, Cherry I—” Frankie’s rambles are cut off by Cherry kneeling in front of her, holding her glistening face in the small palms of her hands. Cherry smiles, and when Frankie looks hard enough, she can see that it doesn’t meet her eyes. And she instantly knows that something is wrong.

“Wait, Cherry what’s wrong. Did something happen?” Frankie whimpers, holding her hands on top of Cherry’s, trying to squeeze the truth out of her friend.

“I think we should get out of here. What do you think? Let’s get away from it all,” Cherry says, gesturing at the front door where Frankie’s duffle lays untouched. Frankie feels herself nodding, grabbing Cherry in one hand and her bag in the other, walking outside of the hotel with a shattered heart.

Before they can get too far, she hears his voice. And that’s all it takes for her to feel the shards rip through her skin again.

“Franks! Please you’ve got to listen to me, please!” He’s pleading and Frankie feels disgusted that he’s calling out for her when his beautiful blonde-haired girlfriend is waiting for him inside just as she’s been waiting for him at home while he’s been wasting his time with Frankie.

“Cher, please let me talk to her, I’ve gotta—”

“—Goodbye Harry,” Frankie says softly. It’s final. Absolute.

She’s not sure who’s heart is breaking more, and honestly, she can’t bring herself to care. All she knows is that she feels as if Harry had shown her a world unlike any other—bright and unknowing and enticing and full of new wonders and surprises. But at the same time, he introduced her to heartbreak and pain and suffering and emptiness.

Frankie doesn’t look back as Cherry drags her towards the street, hailing a taxi and shoving them both into it. She doesn’t look out the window when the tires peel from the pavement, falling into traffic on the motorway. If she did, she would see Harry’s heart crumpling into the ground, his chest heaving in pain, his eyes watering.

Because they were both the closest to love they had ever felt in their lives. And Harry had ruined it. And the worst part of it all?

Frankie should have known better.

***

Inside the departures terminal in San Francisco Airport, Frankie finally wipes all of the water from her eyes. She’s pretty convinced that she’s cried all of the tears her body could produce, so with one last shaky inhale, she lifts her head from the crook of Cherry’s neck, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“Thank you, Cherry,” Frankie whispers to a girl she never thought she would ever call a friend.

“I should be the one thanking you, Frankie,” Cherry admits, laughing softly to herself. It isn’t genuine, and Frankie can see the pain hidden behind her silver eyes.

“What happened?”

“You were right.” Cherry doesn’t need to explain more, but Frankie feels her heart aching for her friend. She feels horrible about their fight, but she feels even worse at the fact that Rod hurt Cherry.

“Why doesn’t he love me?” Cherry asks, and Frankie wonders how the two of them had gotten to this point. Both broken and scarred over two men who couldn’t love them the way that they needed to.

“I don’t know the answer to that, Cherry. But I do know that you never needed his love. Because love doesn’t feel like this. Love is supposed to be the thing that people write songs about, and you’ll find it one day. We’ll both find it one day.”

Cherry just nods at her brown-haired friend she’s grown to love in the span of three weeks. She hugs her tightly, hoping that this embrace will help heal their shattered hearts. Because even though they didn’t find love with Rod and Harry, they found love between each other. And that’s something worth remembering.

“Thank you,” Cherry mumbles against Frankie’s hair.

“Of course. I’ll always be here for you, Cherry,” Frankie replies, squeezing her friend a little tighter.

“I know that, and I will too.” Cherry stands up, grabbing Frankie’s hand one last time. Her suitcase is in the other, and she has a distant look in her silver eyes. “I just can’t do it here.”

Frankie smiles, knowing all along that Cherry was too good for this place. “I know. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says with a promise.

Before Cherry runs off to purchase a one-way ticket to a city far away from California, she turns back around, her eyes glistening. She reaches down to grab Frankie’s hand one last time.

“Aubrey Lennox,” she whispers.

“What?”

“My name,” Cherry replies with her infamous grin. “Is Aubrey Lennox. I’ll call you when I’ve found a place.” And with that, Aubrey walks off, giving Frankie one last parting glance.

An hour later when the hollowness inside Frankie seems to slowly start dissipating, she sees Mary in her stewardess outfit, a million questions at the tip of her tongue. With one look at her little sister, Mary knows something is wrong, and when she tells her that she’ll take her anywhere she wants to go, Frankie only has one place in mind.

She wants to go home.

***

August 1973 - entry no. 9

Frankie writes the Rolling Stone article the night Mary finds her in the airport in San Francisco. After promising her little sister that she’ll bring her home after she checks in with Greg and feeds their cat, Frankie stays up all night, clacking away on her sister’s old Smith Corona Classic 12 typewriter, writing three thousand words about her time with The Nocturnals.

She writes about their origin. She writes about their dazzling stage presence, the way they build off of each other, the way they trust each other wholeheartedly throughout each show. She writes about their growing tension. She writes about their poor management. She writes about how they’re debut album was incredible, chart-stopping, and the main reason why they’ve been successful. She writes about the promise of their second album being better than the first, and how she couldn’t imagine them breaking up any time soon, and how their music is for all the uncool people in the world.

It’s amazing and honest and truthful, void of spite or hatred or bias. She tells their story the way it should be told—open and honest and real. When she delivers it to Rolling Stone, they tell Frankie it’s going to be on the front page. They love the way she portrays The Nocturnals as normal people, chasing the high they provide for those who pay to watch their show.

But when they make out the call to fact check her piece, they deny everything.

“Did you talk to Harry Styles?” Frankie asks, growing frantic. She figured the least he owed her was to be honest and allow her to write their story.

“He was the one who denied everything.”

After that phone call, Frankie returns home with Mary. Once she’s opened the door and said hello to her mother, she locks herself in her room for three days and doesn’t leave.

Frankie didn’t think her heart could withstand any more pain, but she was wrong. She feels a bone-aching tiredness shiver through her body, the hollowness making her feel as if she was just barely there on most days. She can’t sleep because her pillow isn’t the rising and falling of Harry’s bare chest, the soft snoring from his mouth, the gentle caress of his hands over her arms.

Her anger overrides her feeling of emptiness in regards to her heart. She’s crushed at the fact that Harry lied to her about Roslyn, but even more so, he continued to lie when he denied her story from Rolling Stone. She hates him in these days, wishing she could tell him how much of a coward he was to his face.

And when she can’t sleep at night, she hears Lester’s words reverberating through her brain, don’t get too close, don’t get too close, don’t get too close.

Frankie wishes she just fucking listened.

***

The next morning, Frankie is lathering a thin layer of butter over her charred toast when the doorbell rings. She doesn’t make a move to answer it, and when Mary approaches the kitchen with a twinkle in her eyes, Frankie knows that whoever is at the door is waiting for her.

“Mary, no—”

“—Go answer it, Frankie.”

Frankie gulps her dry toast down her throat, letting it fall onto a paper towel with a soft thud. She walks slowly to the front door, hoping that whoever it is could see the state of disarray she was in and would presumptively leave her alone.

Once she reaches the foyer, she hears a gruff laugh, a noise she’s never heard before.

“Holy shit, you’re a fuckin’ kid.”

When she looks up, it’s no other than Lester Bangs in the doorway. His long hair is parted to one side, brown eyes covered in black wayfarer sunglasses. His brown leather jacket hangs off his arms, and she’s shocked that he would come all the way from San Francisco to talk to her.

“Cat’s out the bag,” Frankie shrugs, realizing that she’s too tired and too hurt to keep up her adult façade. She’s fully aware that her plaid pajama bottoms and high school t-shirt give away the fact that she is actually eighteen years old.

But somehow, Lester doesn’t seem to mind.

“Had a feeling. You write like you’re experiencing shit for the first time in your life.” Frankie tries to ignore the truthfulness to his words.

“Yeah, well… What are you exactly doing here, Lester?” Frankie asks.

Lester holds up his left hand and clutched inside is the August edition of Rolling Stone’s magazine. On the front cover is a picture of The Nocturnals: Harry, Eddie, Veronica, Jett, and Rod, posing in front of a red backdrop. On the left hand column reads THE NOCTURNALS: Sex, Drugs, and Life on the Road. And right under that, in glossy red print, reads Written by: Frankie Goodhart.

Frankie starts to feel the hollowness inside of her fill up.

“Harry Styles called and told us that everything you said was true. And that he’s sorry, for some reason,” Lester says, holding out the publication for her to keep. She runs her fingers over the words, smiling for the first time in a week.

“Wow, uh, I don’t know what to say,” Frankie says, floored.

Lester laughs and produces a second copy, holding out a Sharpie in the other. “Mind if you sign mine? Figured it’ll be worth a lot once you make it big, kid.”

Frankie laughs, before shakily reaching out and signing her name in big swoopy letters. Before Lester leaves, he tells her to keep sending him her album reviews, and that whenever she figures out what she wants to do with her life, he’ll always be waiting for her call.

A few days later, the hollowness doesn’t feel as painful anymore. Frankie distracts herself by hanging out with her sister, spending time with her mother, listening to new records, telling Mary the in’s and out’s of her time on the road. She leaves out a certain curly-haired boy with green eyes that broke her heart, but Mary knows that Frankie will tell her over time, once she’s finished mending the scars he left her with.

When Mary announces that she’s heading back to San Francisco, her departure isn’t as sad as the first time. Cynthia and her daughter seemed to have found common ground with Mary’s outlook on life, and with a promise to be back for Thanksgiving, Frankie starts to feel like the ground isn’t as shaky as it was a month earlier.

“Want to go to Tower Records with me? One last time before I go, for old time’s sake,” Mary whispers in her sister’s ear when their mother is busy making lunch.

Frankie nods, and the two girls set off across the boardwalk.

The sun warms Frankie to her core, and she suddenly starts to feel the weight being lifted from her shoulders. She feels more in control of her life now than ever before, and walking side by side with her sister, she no longer feels hollow. Instead, she feels excited. Excited for her future. Excited for the idea of endless possibilities and newness.

“You should come with me to San Francisco, Frankie! I can get you a stewardess position and we can travel the world together. Live like we never have before. What do you say, kiddo?” Mary asks, rifling through the “M” section of the new releases in the record store.

Before, Frankie would have done anything to be closer to her sister. But now, in the after, she feels a new sense of home in Santa Monica.

“I think I’m gonna stay here. Go to college at UCLA. Probably study English, if they’ll let me,” Frankie announces. And for once, she actually means what she’s saying.

Mary smiles at her sister, her thumbs crossing over towards the “N” category.

“Whatever you end up doing Frankie, just remember that you’re doing it for yourself. And that no matter what, I’m in your corner. Always have, always will.”

Frankie reaches an arm around her sister, holding her close. She hopes that Mary can feel the love she has for her through her embrace, and when Mary smiles, she knows she can feel it.

“Oh, I haven’t seen this before,” Mary says, coming to a stop on a record in the middle of the “N” bin.

Frankie watches as her sister pulls out a black vinyl wrapped in a pink and blue sleeve. The band she spent weeks on the road with is written on the top, with the picture from the Rolling Stone cover in the middle. When Frankie’s eyes scroll towards the bottom of the record, she can feel her breath catch in her throat when she reads the name of the title.

GOOD HEART.

#1dff #movies challenge #harry

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blog-vanilla-perfume · 3 years

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Best Vanilla Perfume That Scent Wonderful

Save if you shop for vanilla perfumes with these Feel Unique low cost codes. Save whenever you shop for vanilla perfumes with these Selfridges low cost codes. This makes use of real vanilla from Madagascan Bourbon vanilla pods, blended with herbaceous cypriol https://www.lavanila.com/products/the-healthy-fragrance-pure-vanilla.

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Best Vanilla Perfume That Scent Wonderful

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Cortez and his men were greeted by the Aztecs of Tenochtitlan City with a welcome beverage. Mexico has thus maintained vanilla production monopoly for nearly two centuries. Once your order is dispatched, you'll obtain a Tracking & Advice notification by way of the e-mail tackle you offered , or a text message if you offered a cell quantity.

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A unique blend of artful essences from our Small Batch Perfumery. By browsing our web site or closing this message, you agree to store Cookies by us and third-party companions. Cookies enable sure features on our web site, let you entry your account, place orders, enable us to analyse web site visitors and usage, and personalise content material. We also share sure information about your utilization of our web site with analytics partners.

In this women’s vanilla perfume, classic feminine notes give the wearer an aura of sophistication and sophistication. It’s the most effective vanilla perfume for ladies on the lookout for a singular mix of luxury and casualness. Despite the prominence of vanilla scents in perfumery, vanilla perfumes aren’t always easy to get right. That’s why we now have created this exhaustive listing of the most effective vanilla perfumes.

It’s primarily based on caramel and vanilla, giving it an nearly edible aroma. And, the gourmand notes are a perfect match for fun-loving, youthful and confident ladies. I would describe Vanille Fatale as a scrumptious fragrance. So scrumptious, actually, that I’m afraid in the future I will mistake it for something edible.

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Uncover the principles of perfume etiquette and discover how to spritz like a perfume connoisseur. Our perfumes are micro-batched utilizing the best natural grain corn-based alcohol. A latest experiment has shown that almost all of us, unlike Proust, have some problem in expressing this huge structure of recollection in words. Subjects were introduced with visual , lexical and olfactory stimuli, and asked to put in writing down no matter got here into their heads. Written responses to the visible and lexical stimuli were much longer than these for the olfactory mode, but responses to the odours had been way more emotive, and all referred to memories.

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a-crimson-lion · 4 years

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A (Hopefully) Reasonable Response

For @kiricookie .

[Read this if you want the following ramblings to make any sense.]

(Sorry this is so hecking long and all over the place, I just wanted to be thorough.)

[Manga Spoilers and Movie Spoilers Ahead]

I’m gonna do things a little differently here.

For starters, I’m gonna not gonna be addressing the fandom at large, because the fandom at large won’t be able to give me an answer.

I’m just talking to you, kiricookie. Because it’s your post, and you deserve to know what people (like myself) think of it. Just letting you know right now, and this is with absolutely NO sarcasm: I won’t be rude. I’ll do my damndest to not be rude.

Because you didn’t go and make that post and share it with the entirety of the world wide web just for it to get ridiculously crapped on without so much as a glance.

So, I’ll read it. I’ll think about it. And I’ll give you my thoughts. You don’t have to read them if you don’t want to. But common courtesy makes it so I leave the opportunity. You deserve that much.

You probably already know what this is about anyway. So I’ll start with something… unexpected, at least coming from someone like me…

...you’re right.

To be more specific, you’re right about Tenya. You’re right about how his split second decision to murder Stain should be concerning and in fact is concerning. You’re right about how he’s the most prone to lose his control and how his emotions get the better of him. You’re right about all that.

*Internal wince* Now, if you don’t mind me going into other details…

I’m not saying anything that spurnned on Tenya to murder the Hero Killer was in any way justified; it wasn’t. It never could be, it never should be. Murder is wrong no matter how the hell you look at it, and even if you have no choice but to go through with it, you shouldn’t be happy that you had to take someone’s life under any circumstances. But looking through Tenya’s perspective for a moment… he lost a brother, in a way. He lost a hero. Someone extremely close to him, who inspired him and others, who did nothing but good in any way he possibly could. And then he got cut down by someone who Tenya only knows as the antithesis of good and now his brother can’t do any good, or at least not as much as he used to.

Again, that doesn’t excuse attempted murder. In a morbid way, it’s sort of the logical extreme of when we saw Tenya at the start of the series: he immediately writes of Izuku because he only sees him as a hindrance and recognizes his own shortcomings after the fact. He immediately guns after Stain because he did something unforgivable in his eyes, and recognizes his own shortcomings after the fact.

In the heat of the moment, Tenya is prone to failure. He is prone to misjudgement. We’re talking about the same guy who decked his best friend because he was about to do something borderline illegal. The entire point of Tenya is to showcase the distance between what he wants to be and what he actually is, and the steps he takes to get there.

But yeah, the murder plot was a tad… oh who am I kidding, a HELL of a lot of overkill.

But circling back to why we keep scrutinizing Katsuki about his mannerisms while we keep praising Tenya from sunrise to sunset… I can’t speak for all of us Bakugo antis, because I know some of us have legitimate reasons for disliking him and the others are butthurt record players on repeat that you mentioned, but I can at least give out my reasoning behind it.

We don’t talk often about Tenya having a murder episode because he never tries to do it again, and he legit tries to improve and avoid anything similar happening again.

After the Hosu incident, Tenya admits that Stain was right about him, and he resolves to not be a screw up from then on out. He makes an effort to be a better class representative, a better example than what he had been setting before. He doesn’t deck Izuku just because “hE aNgY” during the Hideout Raid arc; he doesn’t want Izuku to make the same mistakes as he did, because everyone else was worried about Tensei, Stain, and Tenya, but Tenya was so dead set on “righting a wrong” that he ignored everyone around him and nearly got himself killed for it, and if things were any worse in Hosu, Tenya might not have been the only one dead. For all intents and purposes, that’s what Tenya thinks is happening again when the Bakugo Rescue Squad suggests tracking their friend down.

And like you mentioned when Tenya offered to lend an ear to Izuku when the Shie Hassaikai incident was tearing him apart from the inside, that’s the progression coming full circle. Tenya realizes that there are other people in the equation that he needs to listen to and that need to be listened to, otherwise they’ll do something completely ludicrous and get themselves and/or other people hurt in the process.

And the thing is, Tenya only needs to have his “Oh f***” moment once. And it’s barely brought up again, which puts out of the audience’s minds.

(Sidenote, while you’re “heroes not killing is weak” thing kinda came out of left field with me, I actually agree. A whole lot actually. Just so you know.)

The thing about Katsuki is that everything supposedly “wrong” with him… is still kinda going on to some extent. Sure, the people at UA have thicker skin and are willing to brush him off or call him out, but that doesn’t change the fact that some of his behavior is… highly concerning.

Personally I tend to avoid the Episode 1 suicide baiting (“avoid,” not “ignore”) because it was forever ago and it is repetitive, but I still think it needs to be addressed to some degree. In any case, Katsuki’s actions throughout the series are what get me and others to not think he’s exactly hero material. In any team exercises, he often puts himself at the forefront (not without reason, but still) and tends to shy away from tag-teaming unless his back’s against the wall. Despite what the Joint Training Arc would claim, Baku did most of the heavy lifting on his own, with little to no actual teamwork, though that’s more of a narrative problem than an in-universe problem. Even his teamwork with Izuku is still shaky at best; he keeps yelling at him, berating him, and telling him to do his best just so he won’t screw Katsuki over.

Say what you will about Katsuki’s “unique” personality, it may fly with his classmates, but realistically speaking, it’s gonna be a problem for when he does get into Professional Hero work. Can he be rude and snarky on professional business? Absolutely. Does he have to scream at his partner(s) whilst making them feel like they’re at the bottom of the barrel? Eh…

Before I commit to your last paragraph, I wanna bring up something. We can both agree that Tenya lost a hero when Tensei was attacked, right? We can both agree that his decision to ignore everyone and go in guns blazing was terrible, 0/10, wouldn’t recommend, right?

Okay. It’s not to the same degree, but… Katsuki has done something similar.

Katsuki lost a hero too. His name was All Might?

And what did Katsuki do well after the fight was over. He didn’t talk about it with anyone. He dragged out his childhood friend so he could rough him up, because fists is the only way he knows how to deal with his disconnect of societal expectations and, as AO3 would attest, Katsuki is complete s*** at feelings.

Katsuki did the same things Tenya did, albeit to a lesser degree. They both lost a hero. They both didn’t talk about it to anyone. And in the end, they both tried to hurt someone in order to alleviate their pain. The aftermath is… admittedly lucky for both parties.

So, about your last paragraph before the GIF… do you wanna know why antis (at least like me) keep bringing up Katsuki’s previous mistakes. It’s less so because they ever happened, or even because Katsuki did them. It’s more so because despite what the narrative and most of the fandom may think, Katsuki’s mistakes are never treated as such, at least not substantially. Eraserhead doesn’t even bother giving Katsuki a pep-talk about his behavior on the first day, or at any time he’s there to witness Katsuki acting like a jackass. All Might doesn’t stop the training exercise when Katsuki nearly kills a fellow student, which he was aware of being a possibility but it’s fine so long as he dodges, and it isn’t even addressed properly afterwards. In the Final Exams, Katsuki hitting his partner and later being dragged out the gate doesn’t bar him from passing, like say, Hanta; while Katsuki did contribute more, it doesn’t change the fact that his initial uncooperative behavior wouldn’t fly in the Pro Hero world, and he made himself a liability in those last few seconds against All Might. Even him losing the Provisional License Exam isn’t as big of a deal, because Katsuki gets to learn about a really important Quirk, no one’s grilling him like, say, Izuku is getting grilled, and not having his License and getting an additional day of house arrest spares him a potential “maybe strength isn’t everything” ass whooping from Mirio. I could go on a bit longer, but I think you get the jist.

Now, I’d absolutely LOVE it if society didn’t royally f*** up Katsuki’s perspective the way it did, but the problem is that the narrative has absolutely no intention of showing or admitting that Katsuki’s perspective is problematic. Ever since Deku vs Kacchan 2 decided that was enough development for Katsuki, he is always in the right, 100% of the time. Any opposition is few and far between, and will often be seen in the wrong anyway despite the legitimate concerns a person like Katsuki would present. Sure he can tell a kid not to look down on people during the Remedial Course arc, but when the Cultural Festival comes around he immediately decides to look down on the other classes. The fact that a majority of UA hates Class 1A is some grade-A bulls***, but the speech Katsuki gives to 1-A is also bulls***.

It essentially boils down to “F*** everybody else and only do things for yourself.” Because that’s what heroes are supposed to do…

That aside, Katsuki needs help. He needs therapy, anger management, and someone who won’t take his s*** just because he’s a so-called natural born leader with a flashy Quirk, because that’s what canon essentially boils down to. Any time Katsuki takes the lead, at least in my eyes, it’s less so because he’s a legitimately good leader and more so because the narrative has decided he’s the only one who should be taking charge.

I want Katsuki to improve, even if I personally have given up on the prospect of that happening. The problem starts when the narrative continually insists that Katsuki is more or less in the clear and is totally fine when really, he isn’t.

Izuku needing help is obvious and valid, but Katsuki needing (and getting) help is valid, too. Now if only the narrative could pick up on that.

And as for that last bit of your post… really, I can only speak for myself. As strong as Izuku is, as much as his opinion matters in this entire debacle, I can’t help but feel like Izuku is more blinded by nostalgia more than anything else. He still wants a connection with someone he’s known since childhood, and I can respect that, but the thing is, Katsuki spent nearly a decade telling Izuku, intentionally or otherwise, that he didn’t want the same thing. This continued from the time Izuku tried to help Katsuki out of a river all the way until after the Sludge Villain incident. And society had a hand in that bulls***tery, Katsuki was never the only culprit, but he was still a prominent one. And I don’t know about you, but nearly two years is probably not as long as you’d like to think it is, because that’s how long that it’s been since the overplayed, overrepeated suicide bait. And even ignoring that, two years isn’t enough of a gap between the near decade of societal degradation Izuku had to suffer through.

I don’t hate that Izuku is so forgiving. I hate that Katsuki isn’t willing to accept or consider it in any meaningful capacity. I hate that in a world where Tenya Iida, Shoto Todoroki, Kota Izumi, and even Gentle Criminal exist, that Katsuki has to be the contrarian because of his damn pride. And again, society f***ed up on that end, but that doesn’t stop the fact that Katsuki has actively refused to pursue other options, instead staying on the first and foremost thought of “blast it,” with his Quirk or his voice, unless he’s in combat, in which case it becomes “blast it but don’t be stupid about it.” Because Izuku’s forgiveness has worked before for the benefit of others. What does Katsuki get from Izuku’s forgiveness he doesn’t even fully accept, other than another obstacle he sees that needs to be beaten?

Yeah he’s still 16, yeah he’s a teenager and therefore still has the time to grow proper, but you know who else is 16? Tenya Iida. Shoto Todoroki. Two prickly, borderline asshole characters who also received gradual growth, faced setbacks and proceeded to grow past them. Meanwhile, Katsuki is still just passing the halfway point. I’m not putting that on Katsuki, but if Hori really wanted us to root for him, he shouldn’t have displayed that characters like Tenya and Shoto are able to develop overtime at faster rates than Katsuki can, and as much as I can keep playing the society card, Katsuki wasn’t the only one bombarded with high expectations. Shoto, Tenya, Momo, and potentially Mina all come from backgrounds wherein high expectations were expected of them; Shoto grew up in a confirmed abusive household for crying out loud, and we’ve seen him trying to grow past his issues.

Katsuki has yet to demonstrate anything similar. After Deku vs Kacchan 2, he’s still yelling Izuku’s ears off, or throwing his mask like a ninja star because comedy, or trying to fight a big time villain again because he still actually hasn’t learned to take a loss. Maybe it’s because he internalized most of his self-hatred and projected it onto Izuku so long, but I really can’t say for certain. The change doesn’t have to be night and day, but it can certainly be more substantial than what we’re getting now, and that alone disappoints me. And I’m sorry to say it, but the wait for Katsuki to finally grow beyond his excessive asshole tendencies and graduate to decent asshole is draining on me, and no longer a big contributor to me keeping up with the story (Izuku is a big contributor to that, because I’m basic).

Changing each other probably wouldn’t be advised, but their dynamic and their issues with and independent of one another should still be addressed. I have a big issue with “win to save, save to win” because of this, actually. Katsuki has to give a s*** about people, sure, but Izuku doesn’t need to focus more on winning when he already wins enough as is. It’s a false equivalence that further justifies the worst parts of Katsuki. That obsession with winning, with never falling behind in the eyes of society, only further fuels his need to put others down and push his physical capabilities to the maximum while he puts his emotional spectrum on the backburner. And the “friendship” he has with Izuku isn’t gonna change that, because again, Katsuki’s primary concern is surpassing One for All, surpassing Izuku as the Chosen One. He has yet to display any major concern for Izuku beyond the extent of his Quirk usage in the main series. The closest thing we’ve gotten was a look of shock on his face during Heroes: Rising, and this was in response to Izuku suggesting that he pass One for All.

On that note, Izuku cares about Katsuki, as a person, as a rival, and as a friend, and he has displayed this time and time again. Katsuki has only shown care for Izuku as an obstacle, as a challenge he must overcome and one he wants to overcome without hindrance. He has yet to show any semblance of care for Izuku beyond that with meaningful context, believe it or not. And quite frankly, I’m getting sick of people wanting to bring Katsuki on board just because Izuku is giving him the benefit of the doubt when he arguably hasn’t done anything proper to earn any of Izuku’s trust. I know Izuku’s not weak, I know he’s sound of mind, but Katsuki is not a rational subject for Izuku. He has known this boy since childhood, he has seen what he is capable of, and his optimism keeps him in a favorable light. That is incredibly noble of Izuku, and I commend him for it, but I cannot stand by the decision when Katsuki’s attitude towards Izuku and his actual contributions to Izuku’s journey don’t show anything direct or substantially reflective on Katsuki’s end.

...but that’s just me. The hell do I know anyway?

And if you actually bothered to read this word vomit… thanks.

-Crimson Lion (18 August 2020)

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mordigen · 3 years

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Wicca is a Sex Cult - you won’t change my mind. Pt 1

I have always had a since of unbelonging and curiosity my entire life. So, I’d like to believe that my ‘path’ in the craft has been eternal. But, if we are scrutinizing - I guess you could say it didn’t really begin until I was about 9-11 years olde. Can’t remember the precise age or year - just how it went, and my friends that started on that path with me. When you are olde enough to start developing your own likes and interests, olde enough to start having questions about anything and everything in the world around you - and young enough to have complete reckless abandon and lack of frontal lobe development to indulge such questions, curiosities, and probably otherwise, not the *smartest* of explorations. But boy, did we make some memories.

But this was also the time when only the ~rich folk~ had internet in their homes, where the rest of us were reduced to the free 10 minute sessions at the public library which came with the intrusive screaming of dial-up, met with properly humiliating glares of disgust and disapproval that was just too much for a bunch of pre-teens to handle. So what other options could were we possibly left with? Well, if you had guessed the idle corners of book stores’ New Age sections, you would be correct, friends! And what else could be found on New Age shelves in the early-mid 90s but Wicca in all it’s Llewelyn glory?? Nothing, friends. The answer is nothing, unless you hoped to find a few odd horoscopes, a token copy of the Necronomicon stashed away behind some UFO conspiracies from the O.G. David Childress & Co. But if you were looking for anything spiritual in nature beyond the status quo puritan American heritage? Nothing, friends - except Wicca.

So, needless to say - this was my only experience at this age with anything magically or pagan inclined whatsoever. Now, I came from an immigrant family, lived in an immigrant neighborhood, went to an international school with friends of immigrant families so we were well versed in stories of other customs and cultures - but always in an intangible way. Just stories, things of fictions or long-dead ancestors which no longer exist. I personally came from a mixed-bag family, Irish Pagan, Southern Methodist, strict Catholic, Native Shamans. So religious discussions were always heated topics of animosity - so people just didn’t talk about it, either out of spite and grudges, or just to avoid constant fights. So though I had family that participated in pagan rites, they didn’t talk about them - and they certainly weren’t teaching me anything (not yet anyhow, more on that later) So these books we perused, for hours without buying to the chagrin of the bookstore employees, were really the only introduction and information we had to go on with regards to anything spiritually related to the magical or to the pagan - and we took it as gospel, as we didn’t know any better - and I simply thought this was the modern term used today for a whole vast array of pagans and witchcraft followers. I thought it was a modern day term for a very olde religion. That is what I truly believed for years, especially with my Irish background - and the very heavy Irish influence in Gardener’s foundation of his religion, I felt like YES - I had finally found what had been calling to me for all these years. This was right, this is what I was meant to be - as a lot of the tales he recounted I had remembered being told, or reading, in my families books and stories my entire life. I recognized the names. I knew what “feast days” he was referring to - this was my blood, my heritage - and this MUST be what my family and ancestors had been following - and this MUST have been why I felt so out of place for so long : I was meant to find this.

It was awe inspiring, it was liberating. It was exhilarating.....until it wasn’t. One day, after restocking the shelves with a new shipment, did we stumble across the works of Gardener himself. Wherein book after book, chapter after chapter, detailed the use of ‘Skyclad’ rituals and initiations through the ‘Great Rite’ and meditation through the ‘Great Rite’, and visualization through the ‘Great Rite’, and energy rising through the ‘Great Right’ and just about anything and everything through the use of the ‘Great Rite’ or some incarnation thereof. In the particular books that we read, there were even specific instructions on how to handle ritual situations involving young children and minors, with or without parental involvement, and the importance of secrecy.

This should be a red flag to anyone with a brain cell.

But, for some reason, it wasn’t. My friends ate it up - the fact that they were being referred to, and treated, as adults and equals. What is more enticing to a bunch of hormonal preteens/teens who are certain they know everything, than to be treated as the adults they are very certain they absolutely are? We even had intent debates and discussions with each other where we defended that it was completely respectable and not at all inappropriate. We hung on the language they used as proof that, see, they are not creeps - it is at our discretion, and intimacy level. Using words to be extremely specific about consent, and age, and detailing liaisons between mentors/students and members/High Priest(ess)es to not take place until they are of age and to be very mindful of that at all times. It felt all sorts of wrong to me at the time, but I was in complete denial - it just felt uncomfortable because it was new to me. We made arguments that our very strict, closed-minded Christian influence was why it felt uncomfortable.

As a now wizened adult, not only is this “language” and position the very same argument pedophiles use to skirt the law and rationalize their actions as simple fantasies and free speech, but there is the bigger issue of the “secrecy”. Officially, on record, they are pillars of responsibility and advocates or legal boundaries and sensitivity -- but behind closed doors, don’t ask, don’t tell. Whilst making a not-so-subtle point to acknowledge all the legal boundaries, in the same breath they advocate the freewill, and consent of the member - regardless of age. Making the not so intuitive leap to assume that age is an afterthought if the member should be a willing participant. Nonevermind to the impressionable mind and intimidation or persuasion a younger member may be susceptible to - if they agree, then whose to stop them? Using the guise of secrecy as an underlying tenet of the faith. They aren’t “hiding” anything if their rites and rituals and teachings are just an understood secret knowledge only bestowed upon the most worthy individuals - or even that they are protecting the sanctity of such important rites by not publicly discussing them all willy-nilly. Nor do they bat an eye on the fact that presenting these rites and secrecy in such a prestigious manner would lead a younger audience even more inclined to actively participate, AND more inclined to also stayed shut-lipped about it -- as why wouldn’t they?? They are special. They are the chosen ones. They aren’t like everyone else - not just ANYONE would be allowed this opportunity. These are classic grooming techniques, that you can find examples of in the cases of sex offenders and sexual predators all over the world, let alone key tenets seen in nearly every other publicly recognized sex cults - so why is Wicca the exception?

What bothers me more looking back at these discussions we had is that they were completely unprovoked -- nobody had challenged us, nobody had warned us that this sounds fucked up - no one had ever tried to stop us or steer us away. This was just our knee-jerk topic of discussion and reaction to what we CHOSE to follow. We knew from the get-go that there was something shady going on, our gut and our subconscious was screaming at us to not be those dumb little girls....and we were desperately trying to rationalize it to ourselves without realizing that’s exactly what we were doing. And our rationalized denial won - for a while, at least.

I started straying more and more from that path ever since that day. But, as this was all I had at my disposal to build my world on, I only strayed so far. Other paths still seemed like the works of myth and legend - not “real” beliefs - so I stayed the course, just tended to keep my mouth shut and smiled and nodded when such debates continued on amongst friends. Eventually, several of my friends found local covens to join. They were sweet, and innocent. They opened up certain meetings and classes to new members as a sort of “tiral” phase - to see if it were a right fit. One of my friends in particular went to many of these. She came back with all these fantastic stories and experiences. Learned so many cool new things, and was really growing and developing and learning in the craft. She now had her very own mentor, and I found myself seething in envy. They were all growing and flourishing, and I was left in the dark with my nose stuck in books just dabbling. So I gave in, and went to some meetings with her. They were innocent and informative enough - meditation lessons, a fun Ostara celebration. Sermons on the Summerland and origin stories, God-specific lessons so we could learn all the various pantheon and what they represented. Workshops on creating candle spells, and how to properly sage and cleanse a space. We did yoga. We danced, we played instruments and tries to get into a trance-state. We had potlucks. It was fun. And so we decided to join.....

(...continued)

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alittledizzy · 4 years

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Hi, Mandy! The podcast with Phil is up! When you have time to listen to it, do you think, you could share some of your thoughts with us? Maybe even do some time stamps with commentary? Like, of course no pressure, but it would be awesome if you decide to express your opinion on the matter ;))) Have a nice day 🌷

My main thought: I love how much more comfortable Phil is talking about his anxiety and things that make/made him anxious now. I’ve never heard him dig in quite so much on how his brain works with insecurities and how intense he can be about editing and how that can cause him to mentally spiral with anxiety.

Besides that, I don’t think he said much here we didn’t already know, but I sure as heck enjoyed listening to him say it all again.

Timestamps!

2:30 - Phil would have shown up in pajamas if he’d known it was for a podcast. 2:37 - Interviewer asks Phil when he first realizes he was creative. “I think I just came out of the womb and did jazz hands in the hospital.” 3:00 - His parents gave him a video camera for Christmas when he was eight and he made little friends with his friends. He talks about the horror film he and his friends made when they were ten (that he’s made youtube videos about). He learned to edit then by pausing a video cassette tape and putting the footage in and editing in real time, before he could do it on a computer. He doesn’t know where that creativity came from, but he’s been making videos as long as he’s been able to make videos. 3:51 - He used to watch movies hundreds of times. He wore out the Gremlins VHS tape. He wanted to make things like that, or his own version of that entertainment. 4:05 - Gizmo the Gremlin was his mentor. No, he didn’t have a mentor, but he’s thankful to his parents for letting him do it. If he’d done his homework they’d just say, “Go for it. I’ll get you a video camera if you want to make videos.” He acknowledges that not everyone had that means of doing it, though now everyone has a phone and anyone can do it if they wanted to with a phone recording. 4:40 - When he was young his family was mostly his audience, though they let him play the horror film he made when he was ten at school. “I think having that audience reaction, I was like oh people are actually laughing and enjoying it.” 5:20 - He started youtube because he was impressed by the fact that anyone, anywhere can make something and have the chance to broadcast yourself. He saw people like Smosh and LonelyGirl15. He liked watching people’s lives all over the world. 6:01 - He got two comments on his first video and couldn’t believe it. One from Australia and one ‘somewhere else’ saw it and cared. 6:39 - He had imposter syndrome at the first Vidcon he went to. He went into a party and thought he shouldn’t be in the same room as people like Smosh. It was a learning experience. 6:58 - He found it crazy that a hundred people would come to a panel or meet and greet to see him and it made him feel like this was real, it was really happening. 7:32 - The interviewer asks him how he’s maintained trust with the audience and his answer is, “You’d have to ask the audience, they’re the ones that are still watching. 7:40 - He thinks being himself in his videos has help, he hasn’t had the need to reinvent himself or become somebody else. He feels like his audience are more friends than fans. 8:26 - "You have your long term collaborator, Dan Howell-” “Yes.” 8:27 - He finds it refreshing to collaborate, especially in comedy videos. He thinks he works well in an improvisation style environment, like on the gaming channel. It helps to have someone to laugh and have comedy banter with. It also helps to have someone else with creative ideas so you aren’t in your own head all the time. 9:20 - The interviewer asks about the transition from youtube to the stage shows. It was a big leap - they had ten crew members and it was a learning curve. He’s quite a shy person so going on stage in front of 2000 people was far out of his comfort zone compared to making videos alone. “It was kind of… fighting off my anxiety and thinking, I can do this, these people are here to see me for a reason.” 10:33 - They interviewed potential crew members (about a five minute interview) and they needed to be other creative people and understand the internet. They needed people who understood what they were making, and also wanted people that had a sense of humor and knew how to have a laugh. 11:30 - Specifically talking about TATINOF: they were trying to turn everything people loved about their youtube videos into a stage show, with a narrative flowing through the whole thing. They wanted it to be bigger than anything anyone had seen from youtubers before. 12:12 - You will not be seeing Phil on Strictly any time soon. 12:45 - TATINOF was about 70% scripted but it got changed up based on what the audience were like or what the reactions were. American found different jokes funny than Sweden and they learned to change and mold it. 13:09 - During TATINOF learned he can actually do scripted stuff, because there were scripted sections. He used to say he can’t act but he thinks he did okay with the scripted stuff in TATINOF. 13:52 - Section about the Radio 1 show. It started with him and Dan collaborating as youtubers with Radio 1, and the BBC decided to give them a show. He specifically says that Youtube say how many good comments and views youtube videos get, and that’s how the show came about. It started freelance and then they got the main show. 14:40 - With the radio show, because it’s live you really have to be aware of what you’re saying. There’s an art to working the desk with the music in the background and when to dip it down. They were learning on the go and it was terrifying. For the first three months he’d wake up in the middle of the night with night sweats and have nightmares about saying something wrong. He had panic dreams about the radio, but they got into a flow and he thinks it was an entertaining and innovative radio show. He always likes something that pushes the boundaries of the technology. 15:25 - He shades how 'old school’ the radio is because they had to play music videos off of dvds. If a dvd skipped or broke then the show would just go off air and they’d have to improvise. It was good preparation for doing stuff on stage. 15:55 - He talks about the stage show in America that lost power and improvising it in an unplugged way. He was relieved when people were happy with it. 16:38 - He thinks there are things traditional media could take from digital media: free flowing, less restrictions. On the radio ideas had to go through about ten processes. “By the time you’ve gone through these ten steps of checking, the fun of the creativity is gone about. It’s not about breaking the rules, it’s about trying to be more improvisational and spontaneous when you can. Not everything needs signing off by five people before you tell a joke.” 27:49 - He likes that youtube is more fresh and reactive to pop culture. It feels fresher than television - cites people doing the floss dance on Netflix shows now. It was funny a year ago, and it was written a year ago, but it’s not as funny now. 18:35 - The positive to traditional media is more people bringing experienced voices to the table helping you develop something. Youtubers know a few things instinctively but someone that’s been a scriptwriter for ten years can completely blow your mind. 19:25 - He would like to think the main thing his audience values is authenticity, but he actually thinks it is accessibility that they value more. He’s not like a movie or pop star. 20:14 - He’s fourteen years in and still tries to think of videos that would make him laugh or he wants to watch, but he’s trying to branch out some this year. “Trying new things.” He doesn’t think there’s any shame in seeing someone else’s video and thinking of doing his own take on that. 21:20 - He looks to Safiya Nygard for inspiration - he likes that there’s so much research and planning in her videos. Even if it’s a silly video she has all the facts and goes to all the videos. He got to meet her the last Vidcon and it was nice to hang out with her. 21:56 - He’s inspired by traditional media, too. For a long time it was Scot Pilgrim vs. the World, he used to think if he was going to make a video that was it. He starts talking about editing here and goes in pretty hard on what editing means to him over the next few minutes. 22:50 - He’s good at suspending his disbelief. It’s a good sign if you’re lost in a world. When he saw 1917, he forgot he was in the cinema. 23:13 - “It’s more when I’m watching my own videos, I can’t - I find it really hard to watch it as a viewer. I find I’m so critical of myself and I just see the edits and I’m just like, oh that could be different, that could be different. And even if after I’ve uploaded it I’ll get a text from my friend and they’re like 'oh that was so funny’ but in my head I’m like oh but I could have cut two seconds off that bit. So I think I should learn, and other people should learn, not to be so critical of yourself. Because there can be a point where - I made a video in December and I was looking back at the footage and I was like, I can’t upload this, this isn’t - this isn’t good enough. But then I just persevered with the editing and it turned out to be really funny. But that self doubt was creeping in like, people aren’t gonna watch this, people aren’t gonna like this. So I need to work on that a bit and think - if people are enjoying my videos I should be able to enjoy them as well.”24:11 - It’s hard not to be numbers obsessed because youtube tells you as soon as you sign in what’s performing well and not. You don’t want to get that feeling when you first log in to your channel, and you can’t really avoid it. “You’ve got to see it as a learning thing rather than an everybody hates me thing.” 25:42 - Once a video is out in the world, he lets it go. He doesn’t obsess over it. He’s more critical in the editing process and actually pressing go rather than after the fact. 26:08 - He’s particularly proud of his coming out video because of the unexpected reaction. The video production wasn’t incredible but he’s proud of the message. 26:40 - They ask him how he’d have felt in 2006 knowing where he’s at now. “No. I’d probably run away.” 26:47 - “I was so shy and anxious, I couldn’t even like… phone for a hairdressers appointment. I was that nervous about public interaction and talking and stuff like that. So the fact that I’ve got to this level now where I can go on stage or talk on a panel it’s just like - it’s kind of mindblowing looking back at where I was. I’m proud of myself for that.” 27:15 - He’s ready to sink his teeth into a big new project, to do something new that’s very Phil and his own thing. He’s obsessed with interactivity. He was making interactive videos ten years ago with youtube annotations and he thinks now broadcasters and traditional media is more accepting of that technology and narrative structure. 28:15 - He pitched one interactive thing that didn’t work out. He shouts out Complex and also Markiplier’s interactive youtube original. 29:02 - It’s good to get feedback on an idea that’s rejected. It would be weird if everyone said yes all the time. He goes a bit in depth here on potential reasons why a project may be rejected and not taking it as an attack or a big negative thing. 30:33 - If he made a film he’d write it, not be the star of it. He’s excited to see where that creative process goes. He’s written a few short stories and tried a long form script. He’s a control freak so he won’t release it until it’s perfect. 31:03 - He sees Youtube as his work, and scripting and pitches as a hobby. He’s not under a deadline with writing and can enjoy free flowing creativity, unlike youtube where he needs to make a video every week. 32:00 - Discussion about the illustrator they had for TABINOF, who worked on The Mighty Boosh.33:00 - When ask him for one thing he’s inspired by at the moment, he says Bandersnatch and talks about it a bit. He still has Scott Pilgrim and Gremlins in his heart, though. “Gizmo’s the one.”

#anon asks #phan asks #Anonymous #long post

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sneek-m · 4 years

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After an hour into Shunji Iwai’s All About Lily Chou-Chou, a brief appearance of a Kinki Kids CD offers reprieve from the traumatic episodes of violent teen bullying. High-school girl Shiori Tsudo ejects her album from her CD player to check out a single by fictional musician Lily Chou-Chou that she snatched from her classmate Hayato Ichihara. The self-tortured art-rock music by the movie’s title artist is the complete opposite of the Johnny’s boy group, but the latter’s pop innocence is precisely what makes its presence so comforting.

(Going to put the rest of it under breaks so avoid any spoilers!)

The story of Shiori actually makes her interest in Kinki Kids kind of laughable. She falls off from the path of a regular high-school girl as she gets blackmailed by Shugo Oshinari, a ringleader of the bully circle in the class, to participate in enjo kosai. When Hayato later phones her to pass the word about his friend’s interest in her, she has to double-check if it’s for business. With such a compromised teen life, it’s hard to imagine a side of her that’s pure and typical, like an interest in a popular boy band.

Popular culture largely escapes the overarching world of Lily Chou-Chou, so it’s rather jarring to discover the existence of a pop staple like Kinki Kids within the story. The suburbia depicted in the film resembles the actual world with sights of a Tower Records and a Tsutaya; the latter is where Hayato unsuccessfully shoplifts a new Lily Chou-Chou CD. But the conversations about musicians recurring throughout the narrative is secluded from the mainstream, contained instead as posts on a fan message board dedicated to Lily Chou-Chou. One topic is centered on other artists similar to Lily with users listing Bjork and Sheena Ringo — expected choices given their respective reputations for artfulness, emotional rawness and a devoted cult following.

The actual music made for the film to represent Lily Chou-Chou’s draw heavy inspiration from those artists. The resulting album, Kokyuu, is a product of the late ’90s with a post-Nirvana approach to feedback-laden rock guitars that symbolize emotional bruise and a post-Radiohead flirtation with electronic music that suggest artfulness. Belonging to real-life singer Salyu, Lily’s breathy voice delivers oblique lyrics that gestures at hidden, inexplicable pain.

Kinki Kids, meanwhile, is the commercial foil that fans of Lily Chou-Chou would likely detest as inauthentic. For one, the duo is a product of the Johnny’s agency, a lead pop factory practically controlling the charts as well as all facets of Japanese media still to this day. That alone crosses a lot of lines for defenders of so-called real music, but those hardcore fans would consider their music too saccharine. Take “Flower” from 1999, out around the time Iwai was probably building the internet novel that he adapted into Lily Chou-Chou as a film, or “Natsu No Osama” from the summer of 2000 when the film was also in production. Over brightly polished music, both clearly intend to woo and flatter as boy bands do, with lovelorn gestures aimed directly at their core fan base.

Lily Chou-Chou builds a world entirely separate from that fan base of people screaming for the attention of boy bands. Filled with bullying that lead to suicide and rape, the film presents a violent reality that the commercial mainstream ignores; the homeroom teacher of the core characters do just that even if she continuously observes the effects of teen bullying. The users of the Lily Chou-Chou message board, too, supplants mainstream culture by constructing their own alternative realm based around the lore of its devoted idol.

The presence of a Tsutaya tethers the diegetic world of Lily Chou-Chou with real life just enough to suggest a reality where boy-band pop coexists with the Lily Chou-Chou as it does outside of the film. The existence of pop music fans, however, still seems like a product of make-believe. Hardly anyone from the cast has the leeway to have innocent hobbies and certainly not Shiori: after she gets blackmailed, she’s gradually driven into self-hate and ultimately suicide. For a moment, the Lily Chou-Chou CD soothes her like it relieved Hayato or the residents of the message board, but I like to think she had already found an escape in the world of pop music. During the few seconds that Kinki Kids CD appears on screen, I imagine an alternate reality where she’s free to pursue simple, teenage interests like that idol on the TV screen.

#All About Lily Chou Chou #Kinki Kids

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moonlightstars16 · 4 years

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Chapter 12 ~ A Fresh Start

AN: HELLO! I am back! And I have more news! Since my job is starting back up again, these chapters will be less and less frequent. I apologize but so much as happened while I was away that I barely had time to even look at this book. I even lost a bit of inspiration. However I do plan on finish it no worries there. I promise as soon as I am done with the thirty day challenge on my 'Connverse One-Shot' book this will get my full attention. So my schedule I have posted on my instagram @etherealmaiden but I'll restate it here. I'll be updating 'Shattered Blood' twice a month. Still on Tuesday's but not every week. Thank you once again for reading and I hope this chapter was worth the wait.

Connie, Greg and Amethyst sat around the fountain outside the zoo. Amethyst told her about other amethysts (whom she called famithyst's) helping out in the human zoo as more of a counselor. They snuck this in when the human zoo was put on the back burner in Steven's mind. Then explained that the Zoomans needed to relearn most human cultures. They were from all over the globe and though their heritage was strong, all of them lost sight of it when they were broken in here.

Connie held back tears in sadness. They lost apart of who they are. Not to mention more when they realized that Earth will be no more. It was a lot for even Connie to take in. She couldn't begin to fathom what they will think. Still they had a right to know. Even if their choice was to pretend that part of them never existed. Free will wasn't created for nothing.

"So we just have to teach them... like a school!" Connie beamed, getting an idea.

"But Connie, it's going to take much more than that. I mean I barely passed high school at my age. I can't teach them all at once. Besides we are also talking about different cultures here."

"I know and believe me I don't know a lot however we can get them started. Once others from their own heritage come to help out, then they can take over. They only need to help push them in the right direction. And Steven has an entire library to use! It's beyond filled with all different kinds of culture. Just enough for a fresh start."

"Well I have notes about where they came from over the years...before they were brainwashed..." Greg spoke sadly. Pulling out an old record book he kept with him in his coat pocket.

"Connie, you're just one person. You can't teach them all with what maybe little time." Connie sighed. They had less than one year until the project was complete...and when the earth will be no more. She did have a point.

"Amethyst" she began thinking out loud. "You said you have a lot of...famithyst right? Well I know you mentioned they liked to party, but what of they helped?"

"Um, they're gems not humans with knowledge like you two have."

"Amethyst at one point you had some of that knowledge too. Look we just need to teach a few groups different things to help get started."

"So we teach the Amethyst to teach the others while we teach the zoomans as well?"

"Yes, along with what we have in the library, we can help them get far." Connie sighed and stood up to face them. "We don't need to make them scholars here. We just need to help them find their identity again. It's not just all about numbers, words and facts. It's who they came from. Who they choose to be. Giving them the chance to regain apart of themselves they lost long ago." An image of Steven's gem half and human half connecting with her flashed in her mind. Thankfully Greg's words took her out of her thoughts.

"So it's more about history right?" They all laughed upon hearing that remark. "Connie I think we have something but even with that help, that's a lot of gems to only you, me an Amethyst. Will that be enough?" Connie looked down and started pacing back and forth. Even between them, they had a long way to go. Suddenly she stopped and a mischievous smile appeared.

"Only us, yes almost impossible... but I think I know at least three more gems who can help."

"Oh no! Not me!" Lapis spoke flying to put more books away. "Look I think the idea is good but I don't know if I can."

"Well I think it's awesome! I can finally do more with my skills than just organizing a library and coming up with 'useless' projects here and there that serve no functional purpose what-so-ever!" Peridot exclaimed excitedly fast. Smiling brightly while jumping up and down excitedly.

"I agree, it's about time we put all this knowledge for good use." Bismuth exclaimed putting a stack of books down on the table. "Besides we pretty much organized the entire library. Having a better organizing system too when it get's messed up again."

"I'm sorry Bismuth but did you just say 'when'?" Peridot said while standing still, fear in her eyes.

"It's inevitable, but we can get it back to normal again soon." Bismuth patted Peridot on the back as she nodded then gulped. Trying not to remember the time a huge pile of books trapped her underneath. Thankfully Connie heard the crash and came to help. Still it shook the poor green gem to the core.

"Thank you, we need all the help we can get." Looking up they all pulled puppy dog eyes at Lapis. She folded her arms upon seeing them, then rolled her eyes with a sigh of defeat.

"Okay fine! But I'm not going to show any mercy! Those Amethysts will listen to my words, learn and like it!" Connie smiled and put her hands over her heart, laughing at the weird bunch she gathered between the six of them. Well seven if Pearl wasn't so busy helping out being second-in-command. But that will be brought up for a later time.

After getting a schedule organized (and Connie making her own personal schedule), the gem trio went to prepare for tomorrows meeting to get everything organized. Sighing after it was all finished and decided to hang back and relax. In some sort of twisted way, she was glad to be there to help them. Finally feeling like she could do some good instead of prepping for the nightmare and transition that is to come.

Thirty minutes went by as Connie laid against the library bay window. Feeling dusk's rays going down as her thoughts wandered in her book. Suddenly, a gut gave her the sensation that she wasn't alone. Pausing her story she slowly tilted her head back up.

"Why, this is a fitting site for you." A voice spoke up as Connie turned her head. Sliding her legs off and letting her feet touch the floor. Steven stood there, hands behind his back, stepping out from within the shadows. The suns light hit his mask at an angle, where the shadow made it look like his entire face was covered and not just half. Still she was unnerved by his presence, already used to it by now.

"Relaxing, before the next meeting tomorrow night."

"To which meeting are you referring too?" An inquisitive yet knowing tone in his voice. Connie closing her eyes in realization. Not like it was a big secret anyways, but still.

"How long?"

"Nothing in this castle get's passed by me."

"How very discreet of you." It was obvious she wasn't fond of speaking with him much.

"It would appear we have some...matters to discuss..." His calm demeanor prominent as he also was tired of this. Connie looked up and contemplated on what to do next. One one hand what he had done to her was such a violation! Not to mention all the horrible things he had done before that.

But on the other hand, there was so much more she didn't understand Why was he doing all this Zooman rehabilitation project? Who was he before to have gems like Pearl stand by him? So fighting and avoiding the issue wasn't going to help. It was time to face the facts.

"It would appear that we do." Her voice was much softer than before.

The library fireplace lit as the flames danced, cracked sounds from the embers came from within. Other than that it was silent. The peaceful calmness of it all was nice, even in their own thoughts everything seemed frozen in time. she then sighed and bit her inner cheek before speaking.

"Why?"

"Pardon?" Steven spoke, an eyebrow raised in confusion as he stood up straighter. Connie breathed in deeply, trying to control her own emotions. Putting a bookmark in a chapter, closing the book back up.

"Why? Well.... I mean it's the beginning to a lot of questions I have."

"I warned you about your curiosity, Connie." He stated firmly, folding his arms once again over his chest.

"At this point I feel like I don't have much to loose.... I already lost everything else.... It's all I have left...." Tears brimmed her eyes and she blinked them back. Looking upon him straight on. Steven's heart began to ache slightly upon hearing the meaning beneath her words. He felt that ever since she came into his life. It came and went but still... it felt foreign to him. He couldn't begin to understand why he felt so strongly that way around her.

"What's your...'why' questions?"

"I know why I'm here.... I know very well the deals we made." Steven pushed away the memory of making another deal with Spinel. 'It's not like she needs to know anyways...'

'Wrong'

'Shut up'

"Why did you kiss me? Why did you accuse me of knowing something about your...other half?... Why didn't you get rid of me after I-..." She sighed and bit her lower lip. He didn't need to hear more for that last one. Clearing his throat he decided to answer the first two honestly. Not like she had to know much, but to get back in good graces with her, he decided it was best.

'You're halfway there in that thought process.'

"I suppose it was, wrong of me to accuse you of knowing something like that." He stated ignoring the statement in his mind. "To tell you the truth, I don't know why you connected with him in the first place."

"You're referring that part of yourself in the third person. Isn't he half of you?"

"It's complicated."/'It's complicated.'

By the tone he was using, Connie decided it would be best to leave it at that since it would only confuse the matter more.

"Connie, by all means I don't know how you do it. I mean you don't have any magic let alone any gem powers. The fact you connected to that part of myself is beyond even my understanding."

"I know I'm only human, I suppose that means I'm not special at all." She stated in slight sarcasm folding her arms and looking away. More or less really leaning towards agreeing with it. It was the truth after all, no human like herself could possess any magical properties like a gem.

"That's not what I meant...not in that way. All I'm saying is that this is a mystery I cannot solve. But I shouldn't have assumed so much like that out of you." Connie turned to face him, catching his gaze in hers. Well it wasn't an apology, but it was a start. Right now, that was more than she could ask for.

"You thought by kissing me, it would magically make everything clearer for you?"

"By the closest contact I know of, apart from certain instances, it was the strongest theory to gain a better understanding. But perhaps it was too much of an assumption."

"Yeah I think it was." Connie said sarcastically in a teasing tone making them both chuckle slightly. Easing some tension off their shoulders. "Look I obviously don't know much...but maybe he's helping you reconnect with your humanity?"

"What?"

"It's only a theory Steven. Maybe because I'm the closest human to you right now?"

"I have the human zoo and my-...father, I think my humanity side is just fine."

"Well if you're sure but if I may?" she paused while he gestured for her to continue. No reason to stop now anyways. "You're human zoo, its the opposite of humanity, it's inhumane. Yes you are trying to change that now. However it doesn't change the reality and truth of what you've done in the past. You kept trapped humans here like animals and watch them in their habitat.

You cannot connect to that which you control like you are- were doing, nor fully understand who they are if all you do is oppress them. And you're father is still tormented by his heartbreak over your mom. He can't connect with anybody until he's ready to open his heart again. Even though he still cares for you so much."

"Watch yourself, Connie" Steven warned, swallowing down the truth she put in front of him.

'Tick, tick, tick, boom! There goes the truth bomb.'

"All I'm saying Steven, is that I have made a connection with you. I can help you understand. Now that I know what you're wanting." Connie was a bit surprised herself of the offer that she made. However thinking it over, she had to make the best of her situation. Knowing that before he was once a good person, maybe we can be again.

"You," he pointed at her with his finger, them himself with his thumb against his chest "want to help me."

"I mean I'm curious about this even more now. Since I became more involved thanks to you. Besides you need me to understand why your gem half is connecting to me and bringing out the human in you, correct?" It was a puzzling thing for sure, however she did have a point. After all, the more she spent time with him, the more she would fall for him and therefore he would win the bet.

"Well, this is a day for surprises... and how, prey tell, are you going to help me reconnect with my humanity?" He teased moving in closer to her with a smirk.

"I know the perfect place. Right here in the library." She smiled watching his smirk disappear.

"Here? And what? I'll reignite my human side in a fantasy book?" He teased while laughed and she rolled her eyes.

"You know, you might find exactly that in a book."

"No"

"What?" The laughter stopped and there was a tenseness in the air. Connie looked at him in confusion. For a brief moment she thought they were going somewhere. The door was slammed hard in her face and reality was all she had. Like they were back to how it was before, herself in chains and he was the warden.

"But-if you just gave it a chance-"

"I said no!" He shouted causing Connie to wince a little. The empathic feeling waved over him but immediately he returned to his ice cold demeanor. Calming his voice down he continued. "The next meeting is in a few days." With that he began walking towards the door, leaving her shook.

"W-wait!" Steven paused with a hand on the door. Turning slightly with an eyebrow raised. Connie sighed and closed her eyes. "You forgot to answer my last question." She spoke up as he paused with the door only slightly open, eyebrow raised once more in subtle confusion. Nodding his head to let her know she had his full attention. "Why didn't you get rid of me after I slapped you and called you a horrible person?" She watched as his eyes flickered downward then back to her.

"As we've stated before we need know...and earth still needs an ambassador, right?" With that she sighed and nodded her head. Watching as he left and she soon drifted to sleep. Steven walked down the hallways in deep thought. Feeling he spoke more truth than he had originally planned.

Sitting there in silence, the crackling of the flames was the only sound in the room. Lost in her own thoughts. 'I think you will give it a chance soon enough...' There was a small flicker of hope in his eyes concealed by fear. A fear of rediscovery on the inside and change. At least what she had gathered from him in this moment.

For the first time in a long time she felt it too.

Hope

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Project 'Zooman Rehabilitation' was underway. Between the six(seven at times) of them, they had starting researching and dividing the work among them. Strategizing, organizing and many preparations were created and worked upon. Two weeks later they had set their plans in motion. While the zoomans were at first confused, they went along with it. Having no 'voice' to listen and follow to anymore.

Connie had to look away for a moment. Unable to face the truth of how much free will they gave up. All the brainwashing's affects it add. It wasn't all pleasant on that side of the wall. Countless nights she heard screams coming in from the place. Screams of terror which were unprovoked from her understanding.

The voices crying out in pain from their past they couldn't hide from. Now most did live here all there lives. But it was as if a memory chip was implanted in their brains and flashes of past lives were plaguing their dreams. As if something inside them knew this was all wrong and they wanted to break free.

That's why this project was so important. They needed to regain their right to choose what they want to do. Have a place to belong too. Find their own individuality and spirit. But first to gain the knowledge lost so long ago. It wasn't like they were heroes, just people who want to help them out. A friend helping out each other. That's what she liked to see them as. Friends.

They had a few bumps along the road with some rebelling against the idea. Some just flat out decided not to care. Leaving a few impatient gems to loose control of their anger. However, this was a chance for something new. A change. Through all the struggles they kept pushing forward the best they could.

It was all Connie could think about day in and out. It felt good to finally do something worth while than just sit around and wait for the next gem meeting. Even during those times, she would forget to take notes on the whole 'cluster' project. Instead would write out her next lesson plan. Leaving Pearl to copy her own notes down for her.

This didn't go unnoticed by the royal hybrid. In fact her behavior was becoming more and more of a problem to him. Not intending her to become more involved with the human zoo ever. He would have to talk to Greg about that later. Standing up from his master chair, he walked towards the library with stride. Hearing the sounds of laughter echoing down the halls as he moved closer and closer.

"They are learning so fast! I can't believe it! My calculations were...wro-...wr-..."

"Wrong?" Lapis asked as Peridot stumbled on that word.

"Misguided!"

Another wave of laughter hit them all. Connie's voice more recognizable than the rest to Steven. Adding that to the list of things he didn't understand about her. Blinking he shook his head and bursted through the doors. A loud crack of lightning from the rain resounded itself throughout the room. His arms folded across as they all looked up in tense shock.

"Everyone is dismissed. Leave now."

Without hesitation they shuffled away out the door, some with looks of annoyance, others just upset. Connie began to take her leave with a clear look of dissatisfaction on her face.

"Not you" Connie froze and closed her eyes as he looked her over. Raising a hand, bending is fingers to beckon her towards a couple of chairs near the fireplace. "We need to talk."

Ten minutes passed in silence as they looked into the flames before them. The silence grew more and more as they sat uncomfortably so. Well at least for Connie, other than growing annoyed. Steven has his elbows on his knees and head resting on top of his linked hands. Lost in deep thought as he was trying to not get angry or upset with her.

"Look if you don't have anything to say then-"

"I hope this project won't take you away from why you're here." Finally speaking up as he looked up at her and she sat back down in a huff.

"What do you mean?"

"Your job is to record for when we arrive back on Earth and give them the report. That not only includes the cluster project but how we intent to relocate the entire human race. Or have you fallen back on our deal?"

"Of course not! I have kept my word on the matter!"

"How so?! Every important meeting we have you hardly pay any attention! Pearl has been gracious enough to keep yourself up to date. However you must do the job you are here to do."

"What does it matter to you?! I can do both! I know I wasn't meant to help rehabilitate the humans you have locked up. I know where my duties are "supposed" to lie here. But I also know I can do much more than just create reports here." A tense silence fell over them once more. Both standing on there feet with himself towering over her. Eyes locked as if targeting something inside.

"Perhaps so...." He inhaled deeply, calming himself though still not entirely convinced. She had a firm ground against him and held it well. It was admirable in his eyes to say the least. "I told you before you are Earth's ambassador after all. However you are also a temporary member of my court. You aren't qualified for anything like this simple project."

Connie fought back the urge to smack him in the face again. For one, doubting her abilities and two, because this was her chance to prove him wrong. To help him take a step towards finding his humanity again. With a smirk she laughed slightly shaking her head. This was going to be her biggest challenge yet. But he wanted it too, according to her gut instinct.

"On the contrary, I think it falls exactly in those qualifications. Well those who will trust you without complaint would sure love to know about the human zoo rehabilitation." Steven couldn't help but laugh. Under all that kindness was a little scheming mind that impressed him. "Besides, this just proves one thing to me."

"Oh and what is that prey tell?" Connie stepped forward a bit and smiled. Her tone soft yet firm.

"You began this project, you do care."

"Any proof of that?" Steven asked smirking and folding his arms.

"You're here now when you said you didn't want too be."

"I came here to talk to you about this odd behavior of yours as of late."

"Exactly! You came here! Instead of just sending Pearl to bring me to you. I think your gem half is wanting to know the human half of you again." Steven narrowed his eyes a tad. She pointed out what was only true. Still he wasn't going to let down any defenses....until he remembering the annoying inner voice and small white glowing butterfly flying around him from the night he left her.

Steven walked down the hallways in deep thought. As if on autopilot and muscle memory to get to his chambers. Stepping up the stairs he began to feel more pain in his gem. Aching with every step he took.

'More.... I need more....'

'No we don't. Focus Steven! We can still push through this! But I can't hold on from this poison forever.'

'Oh hush up! It helps us!' He groaned once he reached his door. Bending over in pain as he rushed inside and quickly drank the familiar green liquid.

'OW!.... we don't have much time. But we have to get to know her the right way. She is the key to helping us! We loose her and this is all over.'

'Suppose it is, but what can I say? She already doesn't like who I am... can who can blame her...'

'Okay before you brood just stop and think for a moment. You apologized and she is willing to help us both. In time, once you allow it to happen, she will see more and more of the real us.'

'Oh and what is the real us?! A pathetic human-gem hybrid that is just a weak beast underneath!' A wave of pain went through his head as he rubbed his right temple.

'In time, you will see that I'm right....' his voice faded like an echo, or when the song fades out for the next one on the radio. Sighing he watched the embers as the pain subsided. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw a white glowing butterfly right outside the window. He saw it before.

It lead him to the human zoo to create the reintroduction project, when he saved Connie, and lead him to the library a couple days afterwords. That butterfly has been there for him since.... Since he started emotion and mindful training with Garnet. Before the incident.

Steven sighed and held his arms out in a dramatic gesturing fashion. Mockingly smiling at her as she took a step back from him.

"I'll humor you Connie. Suppose if I was here for that, what would you have me do?" He asked as she gestured for him to sit next to her back where they sat previously. He complied as she picked up a book from the side table. " 'The Unfamiliar Familiar'?"

"It's about a girl named Lisa who discovers she's a witch and has a familiar. A talking falcon called Archimicarus and they go on a quest to find her father, Plinkman. Who was kidnapped by a mysterious one-eyed man." Connie explained opening up to the beginning. It was her favorite book series and the entire library had the set.

"You just read and summarized the back of the cover, didn't you?" Steven stated more of a fact than a question as Connie blushed and rubbed her arm slightly.

"No- well I- Um.... Shut up!" She said clearing her throat. "Look listening to someone tell a story from a book is an amazing way to connect to your imagination. Let your mind wander into adventures without ever having to leave the comforts of your own home!"

"You are forgetting I did live on earth and have experienced reading like you have. However to say this is a home... well that would be too nice to give it such a name." Steven said and was slightly surprised when Connie slammed the book shut.

"Look we can either do this or not. But I won't have you tarnish one of my favorite things in the entire universe! Because you can't get your damned head out of your own misery and look at the beauty right before your very eyes! Of course I shouldn't assume, after all you seemed to be blind to it all!" Standing up she began to step forward when his hand held hers, making her stop. They stood silent for awhile until he finally spoke up.

'Just open up your mind and stop pushing her away.'

"My apologies... I didn't mean to upset you like this." He sighed and let go as she turned around. "I don't have any fond memories of reading to escape. However perhaps I should....try again..." Connie sighed, hearing the somber tone as she calmed down and sat down next to him. Opening up the book and began reading in a much softer tone.

"Okay, but you have to keep your mind wide open."

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artemisegeria · 5 years

Text

Wake Me Up Inside

Title: Wake Me Up Inside

Rating: T

Word count: 6151

Warnings: Brief mentions of pregnancy complications/stillbirth/maternal death and violent deaths, slight non-consensual touching.

Summary: Wanda has spent most of her life dreading Halloween. Every year strange visions and dreams haunt her sleep and follow her throughout the next year. She does everything she could to travel far away, but her tenth high school reunion brings her home. While celebrating with her friends later that night, a harmless adventure leads to a frantic chase through the woods and a meeting that will change her understanding of the world forever.

A/N: Title is from “Bring Me to Life” by Evanescence.

A little late, but I finished. I did not have as much time to tweak and edit as I usually try to, but it is done.

This story has been a long time coming. Last year when I was drafting my Halloween story, “Dreaming in Red,” I came up with like seven or eight versions that I couldn’t get to come together. I saved all those fragments because I never get rid of any files. I would return to them periodically without any inspiration. About a week ago, something finally clicked with this version, and I was able to finish. My initial plan for this year was to write a direct sequel to Dreaming in Red, but this happened instead. There may be some overlap with it, but not too much. I hope you enjoy.

The nights around Halloween were always the worst. The nightmares would not let Wanda sleep. She used to tell her parents and brother about them, needing to air them in the light of day to free her mind from them. However, as they grew more disturbing, she felt the need to hold them close. She did not want her family to worry about her.

All the nightmares centered on a forest, sometimes the one at the edge of her hometown and others in forests full of trees that she couldn’t name. There had always been odd stories about the forest. Once every few years there were rumors of disappearances. Children daring each other to go in the woods would report stories of monstrous, giant figures and chilling laughter. It was something of a coming of age tradition to spend a few hours alone in the darkness, with scorn heaped upon those who failed to complete the task.

Wanda herself had never taken the dare. Her brother had gone into the forest one year and earned the record for the longest time alone, a record that still stood almost fifteen years later. He kept the other children from making fun of her. She went off to college and forgot the stories for a time. She deliberately chose a school a couple hours away, hoping that the nightmares would stay behind in her childhood home. Pietro accompanied her and her parents moved away also; they chose to rent out their old home rather than sell it.

Her plan to avoid the nightmares had largely worked, except for those nights closest to Halloween. When she graduated, Wanda stayed away. Her parents died shortly afterward and Pietro returned to the family home, but he could not convince Wanda to return with him. Instead, he would visit her frequently instead. She never told anyone, even Pietro, the reason that they moved away, but they settled into this new routine peaceably enough.

The first few years after she graduated, she focused on her career and her friends. She told no one that the nightmares continued. She told no one of the visions that filled her nights during those few days that were bad enough to haunt her for the rest of the year. Their content had changed as she grew older, but the ending was always the same.

The worst part was that her dreams always started out blissfully. She would be sitting in a clearing of the forest, the sun shining down on her, or cooking in a plain wooden house as arms wrapped around her waist from behind, a head resting on her shoulder. There was always another figure with her that she could not see. Wanda knew him, though. The beginnings of her dreams were filled with laughter and quiet conversations and soft caresses, more real to her than any failed relationship that she had tried to start.

Flames surround her. She can feel them licking at her feet, a gentle tickle at first, followed by a more persistent prickling. And then pain. So much pain she can hardly breathe. Smoke filling her nostrils. Fiery trails winding up her body, settling her clothes alight. Meanwhile, the judge with the chin that she would recognize anywhere stands by, nodding in satisfaction, acting as if he were only delivering sweet justice.

She sat bolt upright in the darkness of her bedroom.

The next night she is giving birth, but something is terribly wrong. There is so much blood and no cries rend the air. She can feel the presence of a figure hovering in the periphery of the room, wrapped in despair. Her vision begins to go black and hazy around the edges. Everything disappears.

She came to wakefulness curled in on herself, sobbing.

Then, she is drowning, rocks tied to her ankles, as people stand around watching. One woman standing on the shore is smiling cruelly, her skin so pale that her veins show blue through it. She instinctively tries to struggle upwards, but her hands are tied and she’s weighed down by her sodden dress.

This continued night after night. Death after death. Every morning she gasped or groaned or cried and was unspeakably grateful to find herself safe in her home. Sometimes she could swear she saw strange red wisps floating around her when she awoke. She feared that she was going mad or they were proof of the apparitions that haunted her. But they never attacked her, dissipating as soon as they appeared.

And still something was missing. Her life was full of good things, but the dreams did more than terrify her; they reminded her of all that she could have.

Wanda was grateful that her private counseling practice allowed her a certain amount of freedom. Wanda always scheduled her vacations during the week around Halloween, choosing to go someplace tropical and sunny where the sun would bake the cold, clammy feeling out of her skin.

Until the year of her tenth high school reunion. Pietro had been begging her to attend, saying that she had to go back eventually. He was inviting all their old high school friends to stay at the house. Wanda finally gave into him once he promised that he would not pressure her to return again.

Originally, the reunion had been scheduled for earlier in October, but last-minute problems had caused the organizers to reschedule for the night of Halloween. The weekend passed uneventfully enough. Wanda was somewhat drained by all the new, old people that she met, but her dreams were quiet.

After the reunion itself, Wanda and Pietro’s friends returned to their house. Alcohol was consumed, teasing abounded, and challenges were accepted. Somehow, they ended up in the woods, carrying nothing but a few flashlights between them.

The dark forest seemed to swallow up all available light. Wanda’s flashlight spread only a thin beam of brightness onto the ground in front of her. Natasha clutched her arm while Pietro, Clint, and the others had already moved further into the trees. Quiet settled between them, leaving only the slight rustling of dead leaves under foot.

They continued walking, stumbling only slightly and leaning into each other for support. Time lost meaning in the deep of night until she heard one of the voices that had haunted her dreams for years. “She is here.”

Suddenly, a tall, thin woman who was holding a staff of some sort emerged from the gloom and gazed directly at Wanda. “Come with me, and we will leave the others alone.” Wanda freezes, the alcohol and fear clouding her mind, but she knew that going with her would be a mistake.

Somehow an idea formed in her mind. She stepped forward, away from Natasha, and said, “Come with you where?”

The woman held out her hand. “That is no concern of yours.” Wanda moved forward a few more paces, until she was just out of arm’s reach. Suddenly she veered to the side and ran deeper into the woods, attempting to push her away as she streaks by. The sounds of distant screams that were immediately cut off echo through the darkness. She could hear footsteps rushing after her, but she put all her focus on forward momentum.

She did risk one glance behind her. The woman is too close for comfort, and three other figures were converging behind them. Wanda continued running, but there was a stitch in her side and her breath was coming and going in great, shuddering gasps. She did not know how much longer she would be able to force her legs to keep moving.

She almost tripped into a doorway that opened up in the ground near her. A head and shoulders rose out of the ground, and a hand reached out to her. A voice tinged with panic said, “Come with me, please.” Wanda didn’t have any time to think, so she instinctively accepted the offer, and the figure pulled her down with him, slamming the door shut above their heads. Seconds later pounding started on the door, but the man appeared unbothered. “Do not worry. They cannot get in here.”

She takes a few moments to study her rescuer. At first she thought that the red glow filling the room was coloring his skin crimson, but she realized that it was just his skin tone. The hand that was still holding hers was smooth and warm, something about it familiar and comforting. Silver patterns were etched into his skin, and she found herself desiring to trace them with her fingertips. When she raised her eyes to meet his, she found him staring at her, unblinking, the blue of his eyes entrancing her.

“Are you the devil?” The words left her mouth without her permission. She had never set much store by the image of the devil in pop culture, the concept far removed from the Judaism that she was raised with. But shining through her fading terror was the thought that he could easily tempt her in a number of ways.

“The answer to that is more complicated than you might think.” Lips quirking up slightly, he continued. “The stories about what came to be known as Satan or the devil lead from my past interactions with humans, but those stories have twisted the truth of what happened out of all recognition.”

“And are those things out there demons?”

“That would be a fair assessment.”

They fell silent for some time. He released her hand, instantly leaving her colder. “And why did you rescue me?”

His face took on a pained expression, lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away from her. “That is a long story. Perhaps we should sit down. If you’ll follow me.” She nodded. The steps faded into the darkness as far as the eye could see. Eventually, they reached a landing with an open doorway, and he ushered her inside. The doorway led to an office, complete with filing cabinets, bookshelves, and a desk full of papers.

He conjured a chair for her across from him. Sitting down at the desk chair, he asked, “Would you like some tea?”

“Is this a Hades and Persephone thing? I don’t want to be trapped down here.” A well-remembered story floats through her mind, someone reading to her and telling her that they’ve reversed the myth, Wanda’s Persephone luring Hades to the surface. Someone reading to her in this voice.

His smile grew less pinched. “No, I assure you, you are free to leave as soon as it is safe outside.”

“Fine, I’ll take some then.” The man busied himself pulling out a kettle and some cups. He conjured a small fire to heat the water. His eyes flicked back and forth between her and the kettle. Wanda wished she could break the silence, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. The sounds of boiling water finally reached her ears.

“Earl Grey, two sugars?” She nodded. The man steeped a tea bag and conjured a box of sugar packets and several spoons.

Her suspicions were instantly aroused. “How did you know that?”

“A fortunate surmise.” If possible, he looked even more troubled and gazed off into the distance as he waited for the tea to brew. After a few more minutes, he set the cup, which was steaming almost cheerfully, in front of her.

Sipping the tea calmed Wanda until she realized that was not alone in danger. “My brother and my friends! They’re still out there.” She jumped up to run back up the stairs, but he held out a hand.

“They are safe. I transported them back to your house, and the Black Order are far more interested in you than them.”

“Is that what those creatures are called?”

“Well, it is not an official designation, but that is what…a friend and I decided to call them many ages ago.”

She finished her tea, the warmth seeping into her bones now that she knew the others were safe. But there were still so many questions. “So are you going to tell me that story now? And why are the Black Order so interested in me?”

“Yes.” He turned his eyes back to her, and she began to grow uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Despite his intensity, a softness was growing in his expression, making her breath catch in her throat. “You may not believe me, but what I am going to tell you is the complete truth.” He paused to take a breath; she wondered if he even needed to breathe, or if it was an affectation. “I have existed since the beginning of the universe. I explored vast planets and galaxies throughout my years and saw every variety of life imaginable. I thought that nothing could fascinate me any longer, but when humans arrived, I found a new source of intrigue.”

“Could I interrupt you to ask questions?” The story seemed implausible, but when he turned back to her, she could see the truth of it in his eyes. They held unspeakable years of sorrow and joy, wonder and dismay.

“Yes.” When he began to speak again, Wanda could see him bringing himself back to the mundane world. “I will tell you whatever you would like to know.”

“Have the Black Order existed as long as you?”

“Yes, I did not know that at first, but I later learned that all six of us came into existence at the same moment when the universe began.”

“I still don’t understand what they want with me.”

“I will get to that.” He steepled his fingers together. “When I was created, I had a great deal of knowledge about the universe, but I did not know why I was here or what my purpose was supposed to be. So I merely observed the workings of the universe. Eventually humans came along. I found myself fascinated by everything about them. I only wanted to know more, and after long observation, I decided to attempt to live among you.”

“Did this cause any problems?” She gestured toward his bright skin and silver designs. Glancing down at himself, he shook his head.

“I learned that I could disguise myself as a human. Although I have been caught in my natural form at times, hence the stories.” He smiled at her, but his face quickly fell. “And after many ages of humanity, I met you.” She didn’t want to name the look in his eyes when he reached this part of the story.

Wanda brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. “You don’t mean just now, do you?”

“No, we have come to the part you will likely have trouble believing. You always have in the past. I first met you in 1133 A.D., according to the current Gregorian calendar system.”

“That’s impossible. I was born in 1990.”

“Your current life began in 1990. You were in a different form and a different life the first time we met, of course, but it was still you.”

Despite the fact that her mind rebelled against what he was telling her, she felt a certain rightness in his story. It all began to make sense. Why her dreams always felt so real. How she knew the woman that was chasing her. The familiarity of the strange man before her. “So you’re saying reincarnation is real?”

He seemed pleased that she was catching on, and his smile made her ridiculously proud of herself. “Yes, your soul has returned to earth to be born again many times.”

“That still doesn’t tell me why the Black Order are chasing me or why you went out of your way to rescue me and my friends.”

“No, it does not.” He stood and went to one of the filing cabinets, leaning against it as if for balance. “We did not just meet.” His pause lengthened into a charged silence as he turned around and stared at her. “We fell in love.”

Wanda did not know how to respond. Part of her sang in recognition at his statement, but this was so far outside her daily life that her mind shrank from the possibility that he was telling the truth. He didn’t seem to expect her to speak and continued, “We began living as husband and wife. It was only after we had lived together for a few years that I learned the others were hunting you.”

“What happened?” she managed to whisper. Based on her dreams and the tears beginning to fall from his eyes, it can’t be anything good.

“The five of them confronted me one day. They told me to give you up, and I refused. They hunted us incessantly. No matter what we did they always found us.” He returned to his chair and bowed his head.

“Why do they want me so badly?”

He raised his head to look her directly in the eye. “Forgive a small detour please. When I first decided to settle near your village, I sensed a source of tremendous power, but I could not decipher where exactly it was coming from. Then, I met you, and I stopped caring about that mystery. Until the Black Order came. They were channeling all their abilities together to find that power, and they told me that it was you.”

Despite his deadly seriousness, Wanda laughed. “But I’m just a regular person. There’s nothing special about me.”

“That is not true,” he states with absolute conviction, voice firm. “You have borne more grief in your lives than most, and it has not broken you. You may not see your full power, but it is there. Their plan relies on your giving into despair, and you have not succumbed. They want you to tear apart the world and remake it in their image.”

“I could do that?”

“I believe so, if you lost all inhibitions and simply let your power consume you.” Much as the thought was horrifying, part of her was also intrigued at the possibility of having that much power. Not having to face fear ever again. Being in control of her own destiny.

“That woman. I’ve seen her laughing at me in my dreams as I drown or burn at the stake.”

“Yes, Proxima Midnight. Out of all of them, she seems to take the most glee in hunting you.”

“Huh. That’s some name.” It was odd detail to latch onto in this tale, but at least it’s within her realm of comprehension.

“Yes, we are all prone to dramatic names. I typically go by Vision.”

“Vision,” Wanda tested the name on her tongue. “I like it.”

“Thank you.” The new lightness fled the room when Vision sighed. “All that aside, even though the Black Order are the ones hunting you, much of your pain has been my fault. They were able to find you the first time because of me. They were able to accuse you of being a being a witch because of me.”

She sensed that he was holding back. “I am sorry. I will be back in just a moment; I have to check on the door.” It seemed that he was only trying to escape, but she did not protest. He returned a few minutes later, looking calmer than he had. “Everything is still secure.”

After long moments of silence, she prodded, “Before you left, I thought you were going to say something else.”

He pressed his hands into his desk and looked down at them. “I…I don’t…Our…” He stopped, tears now falling down his cheeks. His voice was only a croak as he continued, “It is all my fault. I should have known. It-.”

Wanda could not take it anymore. “You blame yourself for our child and me dying.” Vision looked stunned at her bluntness but merely nodded. “That’s been one of my most frequent dreams.” He winced at that. “But there was only version of it, unlike the others. I must have been tried as a witch at least half a dozen times.”

His face was still pained, but his voice was steadier as he said, “After realizing that you could bear my child, which we had initially thought was impossible, we were very careful to ensure that you did not become pregnant again.”

“So you found me again every time I came back to life?”

“Almost every time. Several times I broke my promise.” He bowed his head. “We always discussed it. I offered to stay away because your life always ended in tragedy, but you assured me that the good parts made the sorrow worthwhile.”

“The last time I remember being alive, from my dreams, is in the 1950s. What happened between then and now?”

He sighed deeply, and it was such a human gesture, despite his strangeness. It only emphasized the odd sense of familiarity she felt with him. “During your last life, we were married. One day we were arguing. About the future. We both said terrible things to each other and you stormed out. A couple hours later I received a call, saying that you had been in an accident. I drove to the place, but you were already gone by then.”

His hands were shaking. “I’ve never been so close to blind rage. The driver came over to me and made a show of being deeply apologetic, but it was Proxima in her human guise. I began to strangle her with my bare hands until one of the officers on the scene pulled me away. I vowed never to meet you again.”

“So much for that.” She grinned at him. The panic was fading now and she felt comfortable enough with him to tease him a bit.

“Yes, I consider breaking my promise a better option than letting them take you.”

“Thank you. I don’t think I’ve said that properly yet.”

“You are very welcome.” Wanda finished the last few swallows of tea, even though it had gone cold.

Some hours later, Wanda and Vision finally emerged back into the woods. Wanda had to look at her watch to realize how much time had passed. The hours sitting with Vision passed quickly, sharing tales of the modern world and the many decades that had gone before. “How do you know they’re gone?”

“Their power wanes significantly once Halloween is over. They only ever attack during their strongest times.” He raised his head, gaze growing distant again. “And I cannot feel their presence nearby. My sense of them is much fainter than it was a few hours ago. Still, I would feel far better if you allowed me to accompany you to your home.”

Wanda purposefully kept her reply subdued, though she was quite happy to agree to his request. “Okay.”

When they reached the front door of her childhood home, Pietro rushed outside, enveloping Wanda in a crushing embrace. “Where were you? We panicked.”

“I’m fine.” She pulled away just enough to gesture to Vision. He seemed much more unassuming and meek in his human guise, so she pulled him forward a bit. “This is Vision. He rescued me.”

“Thank you.” Pietro nodded toward him and held out his hand to shake.

“Of course. It was the least I could do.”

Seeing Pietro’s confused stare, she chose to distract him rather than explain. “Go inside, Pietro. I’ll be right there.”

Pietro stared at her suspiciously, but didn’t argue. He did smirk at her, though. “You have sixty seconds, young lady.”

She shoved him. The door closed behind him with a click. Wanda turned back to Vision, who had been observing their interactions with bemusement. “Um, sorry about that.”

“Not at all. Pietro and I typically do not get along very well. This is the most promising introduction we have had.”

"So maybe this lifetime will have a better result.” She could only hope that this life did not end in the fiery despair of her dreams.

“Perhaps.” Vision’s eyes were shadowed, but he attempted a smile. “I would like to believe that.”

“So maybe you should come back soon.”

“Do you want me to?”

“I invited you, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.” It looked as if he were preparing a negative reply, trying to keep his words soft but his resolve firm.

Wanda’s heart hung in her chest when it seemed that he would still refuse out of some misplaced sense of honor. She always held herself back from people and was slow to trust, but she decided to take a leap. “I want to get to know you in more than fragments.”

Vision’s smile returned in full force, and she had never been more glad to take a chance. “I want to know you in more than memories.”

They established a time to meet again before Wanda returned inside.

As the next year went on, Vision came to the surface more and more frequently, and his visits lasted longer. He and Wanda fell so naturally into a rhythm that it was difficult to remember that they hadn’t always been together. Despite all their history, Wanda was charmed when Vision stammered his way through a request for her to join him on an official date a few months into their renewed acquaintance.

The night ended with their first kiss. Wanda was eager to repeat it, but Vision had to return below the surface. He did agree to come back the next week, though. Their relationship only progressed from there. The ensuing months brought the best parts of her dreams to life. Fear of the next Halloween lingered in the back of her mind, but Vision’s presence soothed her. He told her stories of them that made them seem more real and fallible than terrifying nightmare creatures.

She relished being able to show him the modern world. Vision made a game of disapproving of all the changes to the world since he was last among humans, but he did a poor job of hiding how impressed he was. Wanda also introduced him to her friends, who all accepted him immediately. During the first half of the year, Wanda could almost forget about her dreams entirely.

Pietro resisted Vision’s new place in her life at first. However, he did come around. He couldn’t deny how Vision cared for Wanda, and his gentle, giving nature wore Pietro down over time. Wanda and Vision finally told Pietro the truth of their past lives. Pietro had difficulty understanding, but believed them. Telling him the truth only strengthened their bond. He still visited Wanda frequently. The three of them gradually became the closest of friends. Pietro even grew more tolerant of Wanda and Vision’s need for alone time some days.

She always missed Vision when he went away, but they found ways to keep in touch when they were apart. Wanda would find notes in random places in her apartment telling her a joke or providing a thought-provoking observation or expressing his devotion. She would send him emails with thoughts about her day or comments about how she missed him. When they were able to come back together again, they were inseparable.

Despite her happiness, dread crept on Wanda anew. As the year waxed and waned, she feared that this life would end like all the others. With the beginning of the next October, Wanda’s dreams became stronger again. But unlike all the other years of her life, now she had Vision to help chase them away. When she woke from horrific nightmares, Vision talked with her about happier times. Each conversation unlocked more of her own memories. If that did not work, he would at least happily distract her.

Pietro also helped her. They played boardgames, went to museums, and hung out with their other friends. Vision did become more worried about what the Black Order would do while their power was growing, but there were no signs of danger. The plus side was that Vision began living with her fulltime. Pietro visited for Halloween weekend. The three of them made plans to stay secure in Wanda’s apartment, handing out candy to all the kids in the building.

On the morning of Halloween, Wanda stretched upon waking. She rolled over to smile at Vision. For an immortal being, he had taken extremely well to sleep. Feeling her eyes on him, he finally opened his eyes a few minutes later. He reached for her and she cuddled up to him. Their plan was to spend the whole day together in the apartment. Pietro had agreed to leave them alone for the whole day, doing some sightseeing in the city.

The day was disrupted when Wanda received a text from one of her clients around noon. They said it was an emergency and to please go to them immediately. Vision instantly grew wary and asked to accompany her. But Wanda insisted that it was important she go alone, that she would call if she encountered any trouble.

Wanda drove to the location that her client had sent. As she approached them, the world wavered around her. Her client dissolved into nothingness and five towering figures stood before her. Wanda clenched her fists and steeled her spine.

The central figure, who she assumed must be the leader Thanos, began to speak, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Hello, my child. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

“I can’t say the same.” Wanda projected as much confidence and scorn as she could despite the trembling in her limbs that she was trying to suppress.

“You may change your mind once I make my offer.”

“I’m not interested in anything you have to offer.”

“I suggest you listen first.” He gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment, and the look sent shivers down her spine. “But one more thing. We wouldn’t want you escaping before you find your way to our side.” Wanda immediately found herself tied to a chair. She struggled against her bonds, but it was no use. The others all circled her more closely. The one she recognized as Proxima smiled evilly down at her. The leader attempted to be kind, which was even worse. He stroked his hand over her hair and down her cheek despite her snapping her teeth at him. “Now, now, Wanda, none of that. Just listen.”

“The world is a terrible place. You of all people should know that. You’ve been murdered, persecuted, tortured, chased from one end of the world to the other.”

“By you!”

“If it had not been us, it would have been someone else. I know you remember. There were hundreds of townspeople willing to kill you on numerous occasions. Someone else would have carried out the sentence.” Wanda had no response to this; she knew the truth of what he said. He smiled more widely and continued, “But if you come with us, you will never have to fear that again.”

“That may have been true in the past, but things are different now.”

He gave her an almost pitying look. “Do you truly believe humans have changed so much?” Much as she wanted to deny him out of sheer principle, Wanda faltered. In her darker moments, she still doubted the inherent goodness of humanity. “I didn’t think so. So why don’t you stop this charade and let us show you true power?”

Wanda pretended to consider it. “What would you want me to do?”

“Unleash chaos.” She began to feel a hum vibrating under her skin. The worst part of this was that a small piece of Wanda wanted to give in. “Humans have been in control of this planet for too long, and they have squandered their opportunities. We think new leadership is needed.”

“And then what?”

“Then you will rule beside us, given the respect you deserve.”

The others’ eyes glinted as they imagined the world that Thanos was painting. But Thanos was growing impatient. “What say you? We only have so much time.” She remained silent, trying to look thoughtful, buying herself a little time. “And no tricks, little one. I offer a place at my side, equal to me in power, but you will not be happy if you cross me.” Wanda nodded; she had no doubt, based on her past lives.

When several more minutes had passed, Thanos gestured to the rest of the Black Order. “Perhaps you need a more personal consideration.” Two figures materialized in the circle. One was fiercely struggling against his bonds and the other stood still as a stone statue. The blood froze in Wanda’s veins. “Let me make this simpler for you. If you join us, you can save one of them. If you refuse, we destroy both of them. You have one minute to decide.”

Wanda gazed at the two most important people in her life. Pietro was still trying to escape to no avail. Proxima and Corvus merely looked on, amused. Vision, meanwhile, was running his eyes over her anxiously. She smiled at him a bit. “Wanda, whatever you decide, I will understand.” Wanda stared back at him, trying to convey all her love.

Pietro finally gave up and looked to Wanda. “Yeah, Wanda, I’m with you always.”

Wanda felt that hum growing. Looking at those she loved, she realized that she had another option. She finally turned back to Thanos just as he said, “Your time has come to an end, Wanda. Make your choice.”

“You want me to unleash chaos?” The Black Order looked gleeful, clearly convinced that they had won. “Be careful what you wish for.” By instinct, she stretched out all her senses. A scarlet glow expanded from within her. She could feel it tingling in her fingertips and through her blood. The mocking smiles on her enemies’ faces faded. They lunged for her, but they were a second too late.

Wanda released Vision and Pietro, sending up a shield over the latter and pushing him out of harm’s way. Vision immediately sent a bolt of energy toward Proxima. She lashed out with her staff, but he dodged easily. Vision glanced toward Wanda during a brief pause while she was focused on holding Thanos back.

She reached into the well of chaos deep within her. A sensation that was both familiar and unfamiliar enveloped her. She suddenly knew what to do. Wanda reached out to Vision. It felt similar to the few times Vision had reached into her mind during their year together to show her a particular memory. She felt him react, though he did not waver from his current fight with Corvus. She urged him to bring them together, and he gave her a brief flick of his head.

Together Wanda and Vision herded them into a tight circle. Wanda slowly let her powers expand. She felt a pulse in one corner of her consciousness. Focusing her entire will on sending the Black Order away, Wanda surrounded them with a crimson cloud. They struggled, but it was too late. Wanda felt a crack form in the universe. She was not entirely sure what lay beyond it, but she sent her captured enemies there. Once they were through, the crack closed as quickly and smoothly as it had opened.

Then, the world went black.

Wanda slowly opened her eyes. She found herself lying on the ground while Vision and Pietro were hovering over her. Pietro was clutching her right hand. “They’re gone. That was awesome, Wanda.” She smiled at him weakly.

Vision placed a hand on her shoulder, his gaze full of warmth and adoration. “Well done, love.”

They both helped her to sit up. “It’s over?”

“I believe so. I cannot feel them at all.” Wanda shrugged them off and pushed herself to her feet. Dusting herself off as Vision and Pietro rose beside her, Wanda pulled them into a hug. The feeling of their arms around her helped ease the terror and anger of the fight. Eventually she pulled away, but kept hold of Vision.

Vision looked down at her smugly. “I told you that you were special.” She could feel the power just underneath her skin, though it was calming.

“Maybe I am.” She smiled more fully as Vision drew her closer. She put her arms around his neck. “And there’s nothing to keep us from being together now. Will you stay with me?”

“Gladly.” Vision dipped his head to kiss her. They didn’t break apart until Pietro made exaggerated gagging noises behind them.

Wanda turned her head to stick her tongue out at her brother. “Grow up.” Her elation led her to be more amused than annoyed, though. Keeping one arm around Vision, she reached for Pietro’s hand. “Let’s go home.” She smiled up at Vision, letting herself believe that this time they could live together for the rest of her long, peaceful life.

His return smile was so delighted that it took her breath away. “Yes, home.”

#fanfiction #scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #alternateuniversescarletvision #mcu #alternate universe

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