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perceabeth · 2 years

Note

Would you be willing to elaborate on why you think hoo broke the rules of the world? I didn’t like the series bc of what it did to the og character arcs but I never caught onto it breaking the rules. No pressure to do so I’m mostly just curious

lol it's okay! WEEEEEEEELLLLLLL where to begin?

Big Three Kids!

The whole point of PJO was that there was nobody like Percy. That they were rare and were destined to be hunted to death because they weren't meant to be born. So then, of course, you assume they don't exist! The ones who are alive each paid a heavy price- Bianca and Thalia died, Thalia chose immortality, Bianca and Nico each lived in a weird universe where they missed out on their own lives.

There was no real reason for Jason to be a child of Zeus other than to put him in a position of leadership, but the thing about New Rome is that they have a different system about these things anyway with their cohorts and stuff and him being Thalia's sister adds so little to anything it was just a really stupid move imo.

I get what Riordan was trying to do with Hazel by circumventing the rule-- but it feels cheap and tacky. ESPECIALLY because Hazel's powers are so badly plotted out that she could have just as easily been a child of Hecate lol.

The most baffling one, though, is FRANK who is for some reason a legacy of Poseidon? I would have thought that was cool-- like being a legacy and so many generations before you having lived out their lives despite being demigods? SUPER cool. In that case. Why is he also a son of Mars?

It feels like too much is being packed into too little and when you don't have the time to explore these things, they just seem like he's saying hey. I know I said it's rare for demigods to grow old. But that's GREEK demigods. The ROMANS are super cool and super fun and they don't stand by the same rules!

2. The actual powers themselves.

Leo, son of Hephaestus and brother of Charles Beckendorf who died in a fire- now has control over fire! Piper can basically brainwash anyone because she's got Charmspeak but wait! There's more! Her sister Drew ALSO has Charmspeak!! Both of them are, of course, sisters of a girl who was manipulated into betraying all her friends <3 Hazel's a daughter of Hades? She's magic. Also she has power over gems and knows her way underground (I cannot even begin to think of WHAT made him decide the black girl needs to play ANY of these roles but I digress). Frank's just an average son of Mars who can turn into any animal he wants, which is totally cool and normal!

Do you remember how special Percy was in PJO? How hard other demigods had to train in combat because they would be killed if they didn't learn it? Remember how absolutely rare it was to see demigods with that kind of power, to the point where Chiron didn't want Percy and Thalia to be near each other because he feared they'd destroy everything? Not anymore <3 Super Powerful Demigods can now sit together on a ship and face no consequences at all, even when they have minor disagreements because they all come together very organically !!

3. Character arcs

I know you said it, but I can't talk about HoO and not bring up Nico di Angelo. Tell me why he went through his arc TWICE in two series? Here's the reason: because Mr. Riordan didn't want to make any of the main cast gay <3 He did it for woke points, so he was like hey hold on what if. Instead of any combination of the FIVE new characters I introduced being gay... I can retcon my Straight Series so it looks like I'm far more inclusive!

Great job, Mr. Riordan. You have raised a bunch of rabid fans who like Nico now because he's Gay and not because at one point he was an innocent boy who loses everything and fights to find his way back home. His story in PJO was a large part of the Great Prophecy, and yet... all of that was washed away in order to make him Gay Gay Gay.

Percy and Annabeth, we know-- it's a travesty. Stupid Percy and Robot Annabeth we've been through this a thousand times fuck that shit but it's so disappointing because as readers WE know these characters. We know them from PJO where they were each their own person and they had some good moments but HoO effectively wiped off the super strong friendship they already had going.

4. A HALFBLOOD'S LIFE!!!!

WHY has that been cheapened to the point of a joke!! It's literally so insane like the first series is about how difficult it is to be a half-blood. Greek and Roman mythology are not as different as Greek and Egyptian, see, so TKC ad MCGA can afford to change up the rules but HoO can't. That's like. The whole point!! So to randomly say hey actually this group is perfectly fine and the reason they're living so well is because the Greeks aren't as organised is so offensive to the reader because up until now all we had was the Greek camp! He flips it over and then somehow blames US for being stupid enough to think that's the only way to live.... and still decides to give the Roman camp child soldiers?????????????????????????????????????????????? make it make sense im begging

5. The bloody GODS

What did HoO do. Like. What did it do.

Because I can tell you what PJO did. PJO was about the gods learning to hold themselves accountable for the lives they create, drew a parallel between mortals, demi-mortals and immortal beings and dissected the value of life. It was a learning curve for everyone involved: for Luke, for Percy, and for the gods he so unwaveringly served. That was the point. That Luke was right, that the gods were primarily to blame because they don't care enough about human life. That they don't even care about minor gods. They swore to change.

And HoO is like aha I know I made it a whole thing and it was a huge sacrifice on Percy's part because he was offered immortality in place of the gods being held accountable-- but sike they haven't changed, even ONE YEAR down the line.

It makes the ENTIRE first Great Prophecy a TOTAL joke. Like what was the point of ANY of that happening if the gods were jut going to revert to being the exact same???

6. Harrowing realities of war

According to the wiki, there were forty campers fighting at the Battle of Manhattan. Forty. That's how many demigods there were. Yeah, the Hunters helped and the party ponies also came in- but it was a small team of campers. Between BotL and TLO, I can think off the top of my head about Lee Mitchell, Castor or Pollux (whichever one) Charles Beckendorf, Michael Yew, Silena Beauregard who died. A lot of these characters have been mentioned before as well! And they died. Because children shouldn't be fighting a war, actually, and yet here they were, dying before they could apply to college. The finale was just this horrible moment when Silena dies and Kronos attacks Chiron and everything seems so bleak and it's when Annabeth loses faith that you know everything is going to change.

Meanwhile HoO is the most absurd final battle, I think, because if I'm being honest, I don't even know who the enemy is. First they're fighting giants then the gods arrive and Fix it for them and then they're fighting Romans and Greeks and then there's monsters in their armies? And SIKE it's actually Gaea who's the Big Bad and defeating her fixes everything as though ANY of that makes sense!! So what, then? All the work that they did in PJO- the friends they buried and the enemies they spared-- that is stupid, right, when you can just get some girl to come and scream "please stop fighting"? What is the point of the war then?

Just because it's more complicated.... doesn't make the writing good.

7. What Theme.

Percy Jackson is about finding your place in the world. It's about home and it's about hope and it's about knowing that you're never alone. That love is always the answer, that faith and belief are the only motivators and that all darkness can be defeated with light. Someoe tell me what HoO is about. Earth Bad, Teenagers Good? It's not even about bridging the gap between the Greeks and Romans which is what it ostensibly claims is the core of the series. Makes it feel like PJO was dumb to have a theme at all. <3

Look at the time lol

In summation,

PJO is a story. HoO is a bunch of scenes sewn together where every scene is designed to be more insane and also to consistently undermine everything that happens in PJO. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

#stevie #q&a #hope that answers it!

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geniusgub · 3 years

Text

north//chapter nineteen

genre: fluff!! some angst

warnings: mentions of prison, ptsd and its symptoms (flashbacks, kinda)

word count: 6.1k

summary: spencer gets home and amelia helps him keep his head on straight.

pairing: season twelve/thirteen spencer reid x oc

AMELIA

Stepping back into my apartment after being away for over twenty-four hours is such a relief. Spencer, for some reason, didn't want to go back to his own apartment, so I happily bring him right to mine.

He's half asleep in my passenger seat, his head resting against the window and his hand smushed against his cheek. Despite the challenging circumstances, at every red light, I gaze over to admire how adorable he looks with puffy cheeks and flushed skin. He's fighting sleep as we journey to my apartment, and even though I've told him that he doesn't have to, I still see him forcing his eyes open every few seconds.

When we're just a few minutes from my apartment, I finally speak up. "So," I murmur, and he lifts his head slightly, "do you wanna do anything when we get home, or do you wanna go right to sleep?"

Spencer shakes his head and adjusts his position so he's leaning more towards me, his head almost resting on my shoulder. "I'm really tired but I'm hungry. And I wanna shower too. Do you have my stuff at your apartment still?"

"Of course I do, doll," I smile, reaching my hand over to rest on his cheek, keeping my eyes on the road. "I have your go-bag too. So a shower, some food, and then sleep. We can do that," Spencer turns his head and kisses my palm, capturing my hand in his and bring them into his lap. I pull up in front of my apartment and park my car, smiling over at my hazy and sleepy boyfriend. "Here, Spence."

We climb out of my car and go trudging up to my apartment, and I push my keys into the lock. I twist it but it doesn't make the clicking sound to tell me it's unlocked, so I pull out the keys. I put them in again and twist one more time, and when the lock doesn't click, I pull the keys out for the second time. I figure that my friends might just be major idiots and have forgotten to lock the door after they left yesterday, so I tuck the keys in my pocket and twist the knob. It pops right open. Great. My door has been unlocked for over twenty-four hours.

Spencer isn't paying much mind to this though as we trudge in, kicking off our shoes. I hang up my jacket and turn to Spencer to ask for his jacket so I can put it in the washer, but his gaze is somewhere else. I follow where he's looking and find that the balcony doors are slightly open, and I roll my eyes. This keeps happening to me. These damn balcony doors. Between the balcony and front doors being open, I'm surprised that all of my belongings aren't completely gone.

"Don't worry about it, Spence," I tell him, dramatically flipping the lock on my front door so we can both hear the clicking noise and then padding across my apartment to flip the lock on the balcony door. Honestly though, my hands are trembling as I touch the knobs. Why are my door continuously unlocked? I try to brush it off for Spencer's sake. "My friends were here when I left to pick you up and I'm sure they forgot to close and lock everything. It's fine. It's not a big deal. Don't worry about it."

Spencer nods and rubs his eyes, then begins to speak through a loud yawn. "You should yell at your friends."

It's just another moment of the old Spencer shining through the armor that the new Spencer is wearing. This exhausted and bleary and witty version of my boyfriend is who I have embedded in my brain, not the version who yells at me and throws books at walls and jumps away from my touch. I wish I could frame this moment and hang it on the wall.

"Come on," I wave him towards the kitchen and he follows me blindly, falling into a barstool at the island, leaning his elbows against the granite. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up and his forearms are far too distracting for anyone's good, and I have to tear my eyes away from him before I get carried away. I'm just too deprived of sex and satisfaction that maybe any intimate sight of Spencer will get me going. Even if it's his hands, or his forearms, or his fingers-- oh god, look away.

"Is there anything specific you want?" I take a glance through my fridge at the ingredients I have before turning back to him. His hands are on his cheeks now, distorting his face in that same adorable way it was in the car. "I'll make you whatever you're feeling."

"Just something, um," he speaks quietly, "easy. Pancakes, or something."

"Sure, I can do that," I reach into the cupboard and pull out the pancake mix, retrieving a bowl and a skillet.

"I'm gonna go put a record on," Spencer drags himself out of his chair and into the living room and I can hear him rummaging through the mess in there.

He's utterly exhausted. I've seen him tired after cases, but never liked this. He can barely even speak a full sentence or walk in a straight line. So I combine ingredients quickly, hoping that the stove warms up at lightning speed so I can cook these pancakes as fast as possible. I want to get Spencer food, and then into a shower, and then into bed. I couldn't care less about my needs. I just can't bear seeing him dragging himself around like this anymore.

My ears perk up when the record scratches and then the music starts, and State of Grace by Taylor Swift starts playing. I watch Spencer come back in and sit down again, his eyes closed as he absorbs the music. I expected him to put on one of the many classical records I have, like Mozart or Beethoven or Brahms. But no, he put on Taylor Swift. I choose not to comment on the music choice and instead, I pour the batter on the hot skillet.

It's only five minutes before I have a stack of pancakes and I've run out of batter. I turn off the burner and divide up the pancakes onto two plates, grabbing two forks and the maple syrup from the fridge. Spencer gives me a tiny smile as he reaches for his plate, digging in without even waiting for the syrup.

I drizzle a fair amount of syrup on my own pancakes and then pick up my fork, about to eat my first meal in twenty-four hours, but then I look at Spencer. He's scarfing down his food like his life depends on it, and I wonder if he's even chewing it at all. His head is bowed all the way down, nose almost touching the pancake stack as he snakes his fork under his chin, and his free hand is on the table with his fingers spread, and before I can blink again, he's halfway through his plate.

"Hey, hey, Spence," I reach my hand out for him, but he doesn't react. This is what happened when he threw the book. He got in his head, then I touched him, and he freaked out. I can't let that happen again. So I sit up on my knees and lean toward him, placing my hands flat against the table so, again, he can see that I don't plan on touching him or using them against him. "Spencer, look at me," he digs his fork into the pancake but his hand falters, slowing down. "Eyes up here, dove."

Spencer's eyes slowly travel up until they lock with mine, and they hold the same panicked qualities that they did post-book-throwing. I offer him a smile, but he doesn't give one back, not that I expected him to.

"Spencer," I speak slowly and calmly, "nobody's here. It's just you and me. You can slow down. You have all the time in the world to eat," Spencer takes a labored breath through his nose and shakes his head, closing his eyes. "I promise, dove, and you know I don't break my promises. You can slow down, you can just be with me. You're with me, and that's it."

"It's just--" he hangs his head and then opens his eyes, staring at his half-empty plate, "sitting like this. It feels-- it feels like-- it just-- it's--"

For some reason, I understand what he can't say. From how he's sitting in such a defensive and protected position and now he's saying that there's a problem with how he's sitting, it makes sense to me. Somehow, sitting like his makes him think of sitting and eating in prison and having to, I don't know, protect his food, maybe. I don't know much of anything about prison but I didn't think that it would change the way he eats meals.

"Okay, okay," I cut off his stuttering, nodding softly so I can seem as understanding as possible. "Come on then," I pull back my hands and grab my plate, sliding off the barstool and pressing my back against the kitchen cabinets, slowly sliding down. "How about we sit on the floor? Would that be okay?"

Spencer stares at me sliding onto the floor and it takes him quite a while to grab onto his plate and join me. He slides down beside me and extends his legs in front of him, setting his plate on his lap. He takes a long, deep breath and starts slicing into his pancakes again, much slower this time.

"Is this better?" I ask softly. "You can tell me if it's not because we could move somewhere else," I start to cut into my own food again, keeping my eyes on him.

"Yeah," he murmurs, and then he slumps down a little bit more so he can rest his head on my shoulder. Spencer is eating like a snail now, moving his hand so slowly that I have to keep looking down to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep on my shoulder. We just eat in tense silence, and as badly as I want to touch him and comfort him and smother him in love like I imagined I would be by now, I get the feeling that he would hate that and it would overwhelm him.

Not surprisingly, Spencer finishes his pancakes before me and gently places his fork down on his plate, setting his trembling hands flat on his lap. I expect Spencer to get up and discard his plate in the sink or the dishwasher and then head upstairs and jump in a shower, but he doesn't move. He stays right beside me with his head on my shoulder so I start to pick up my eating pace so we can get going. If he's not going to move without me then I don't want to make him sit here forever.

"Can I take your plate for you?" I whisper once I've finally finished my pancakes. The sun has fully risen and is blaring through the windows, and it feels so twisted to be so exhausted, so early in the morning.

Spencer nods, but he doesn't offer the plate up to me. I pick it up off his lap gingerly and wait for Spencer to lift his head before standing, putting them in the sink to deal with later. I turn back to Spencer, who's still on the floor, and hold my hands out to him to help him up. He looks at my feet first, and then incredibly slowly drags his eyes up my body until his eyes lock with mine. He seems so distant. He seems so far away and so far gone. His eyes are glossed over and his movements are like that of a sloth, starkly contrasting his quick actions just a few minutes before.

I very gently thrust my hands forward again, wiggling my fingers in his direction to get his attention. "Let's go get you in a shower, okay? I bet it'll make you feel a lot better."

Spencer looks up at me with a heartbreaking gaze, as if he can't even see me. As if he's staring right through me. As if he can't even see me at all. But then he pushes himself up by his lonesome and runs his hands down his face.

"Um," he breathes, his voice so low that I barely hear it, "thank you for-- you know, for the food," He keeps his eyes down on the floor, his body turned slightly away from me as if he's cowering from my touch again.

"No need to thank me, love. But let's just head upstairs and get you into a shower, okay?" I wave him out of the kitchen and he slumps off towards the stairs.

I watch him go, and once he gets on the first step, I go into the living room to shut off the record that Spencer has put on. Taylor Swift, huh? I have to make a mental note to ask Spencer about that when we're better rested.

Once I've put the record away, I follow Spencer up the stairs and I find him rummaging through my closet, already having dumped out all the items from his go-bag on the bed. His back is turned to me, too focused on finding clothes in my closet. I go to the pile of clothes and separate the work clothes from his pajamas, making two separate sections for him and trying to smooth out wrinkles from the fabrics.

"Sweets," even when I speak, he doesn't acknowledge my presence, "what are you looking for in there? I know you've got some clothes in there but you've got two whole sets of pajamas right here. They're clean, I've cleaned these clothes."

"I need a white tee-shirt," Spencer tells me and his voice is sharper now. It's not quiet and timid like in the kitchen. It's the exact opposite of the man that was just in my apartment a moment ago.

"Why?" I look down at the pair of pajama pants and the crew neck on the bed in front of me, right next to a different pair of pajamas, a matching silk set that Spencer commonly wears to sleep. Why isn't this good enough for him? If anything, this will keep him more comfortable during bed than just a tee-shirt. "There's two pajama sets right here for you that--"

"I need a white tee shirt, okay?!" Spencer snaps, turning his head to me, but still never looking me in the eye. "I need to wear a white tee-shirt to bed!"

I let out a shaky breath at the venom dripping from his mouth, reaching for the clothes in front of me and just grasping them in my hand, grasping for something to ground me. Although, maybe I'm not the one who needs the grounding right now.

I hear Spencer sigh behind me as he finds a white tee-shirt, and when he comes to the bed beside me, he takes a pair of pajama pants and boxers out of my hands. I move around him to put the other clothes back into his go bag, setting it in the corner of the room and then sifting through my closet for a crew neck and a pair of shorts. I do everything in my power to forgive and forget the moment that is making my hands tremble and my head dizzy. Spencer never yells. And he definitely never yells at me.

I hear the bathroom door open as I put my clothes onto the bed and pull off my tank top, but when I don't hear the water turn on, I turn to check on Spencer. He's still standing in the doorway, clutching his clothes in his hands and staring at the shower door.

"Spence?" He jumps when I speak his name as if he momentarily forgot that I was in the same room as him. And when he turns to me, he's back to the man he was in the kitchen. Quiet, timid, desperate. His eyes are pleading for me, and I feel helpless knowing I don't know exactly how to help him. I disregard my clothes and walk toward him, but don't make an effort to touch him. "Love, you can shower, it's okay. You'll feel much better when you wash off all the sweat and grossness of the--" I pause, wanting to say one certain word but knowing I shouldn't. I settle with a safer word, "day."

Spencer pouts his pretty lips and his hands tighten around the pile of clothes in his hands. "Could you-- um-- could you come with me? I don't wanna be alone right now," and perhaps it seems like a rude comparison, but he looks like a small child. He looks like a child who's woken up from a nightmare, clutching his pillow to his chest, asking his mom to come to his room to scare away the monster under his bed. But I'll never be able to scare away the monster under Spencer's bed. We both know that and we both seem to be ignoring it. For now, we'll pretend that I can remedy every issue in the world and continue on with our day.

I toss my tank top into the hamper across the room and then walk over to Spencer, leaning against the doorframe across from him. "Are you gonna be comfortable with that, dove?"

Spencer nods quickly, his hair falling in front of his eyes. "I'll be okay. I really don't wanna be alone. I want you."

I glance at the shower and then back at Spencer with his greasy hair and his half-lidded eyes and his hunched shoulders, and I nod. If he gets uncomfortable again, I'll just get out. He needs a shower more than me anyway, and if I need to get out of the shower because he doesn't want me touching him, then it's not the end of the world. Spencer breathes a sigh of relief and steps fully into the bathroom, setting his clothes on the sink counter. I grab two towels from the closet and start the shower, leaving the door open a crack so the steam can escape.

Spencer strips off his clothes before I do and, holy shit, I almost gasp. Now, for the millionth time, I have no idea what prison is like. I only know tiny bits of what Spencer went through, like getting beat up and eventually stabbing himself and getting thrown into solitary confinement. I don't know what he did during the time that he was stuck in his cell by himself, or what he did to pass the time when he wasn't in his cell. Honestly, I don't really know what he did at all in prison.

But holy shit. Spencer's arms are far more toned than I remember them to be and his stomach is too, and if Derek Morgan were here, I'd bet good money that he would be impressed. Even Spencer's calves and quads look more toned than before, and every time he moves, every one of his muscles flexes in the most delicious and sexy way. How much did he work out in prison? Did he work out every second of every day? I wasn't expecting this type of transformation from him, but he's been full of surprises. And after a moment of staring, I wonder if this is a good change or not.

"Why are you staring?" Spencer has just reached for the waistband of his boxers but paused when he saw me standing still and staring, then his hands stilled.

"Um," I have to physically jerk my head to the side to break my gaze and force my eye line up to his pupils, "sorry, I was just-- you--"

"I what?" Spencer retorts, and thankfully, he doesn't sound angry. He sounds genuinely curious.

"You just look different. More, you know, muscular," I try to choose my words carefully because I don't want to offend him. I don't want to make it seem like I hate his body now, or that I hated his body before prison because neither is the case. I could never hate his body. I'm not with him for his body. His body is beautiful regardless. This is just such a difference from what I'm used to seeing from my boyfriend. This is just another part of him that has been taken away from him. His soft body is gone as if he has morphed himself into an intimidating alpha male. I never wanted an alpha male. I've only ever wanted my Spencer.

"I worked out a lot," Spencer mumbles vaguely. He barely tells me any details about prison. The most he told me was while we were eating. And even still, he didn't give me specifics during dinner. He left me to guess exactly what was wrong. It's all been vague so far. I'm not sure if that's because he's protecting me or because he just can't bring himself to talk about it yet.

"Let's get in the shower so we can get some sleep," I want to nudge him towards the open shower curtain and the warm, streaming water. But Spencer moves on his own, shuffling towards the shower and quickly discarding his boxers.

He seems hesitant to get into the water at first, just standing at the edge of the tub and letting the water hit his toes first. Spencer stares at the stream of water, reaching his foot out a bit more to get his ankle and shin wet. I watch him carefully for a moment, just to make sure he doesn't freak out like he has a few times already today.

Spencer's head turns to me and he gives me a pleading look, his eyebrows scrunched up and his bottom lip between his teeth. He's clearly keeping tears at bay, trying to prevent his chin from quivering. "Lia," he stammers, but doesn't say anything else. A single tear falls down his cheek.

I quickly pull off my undergarments and move the shower door back a little bit more, stepping into the tub so I'm in the stream of water. I hold my hands out for him, and this time, he actually grabs onto them. I draw him closer to me. Not closer to the stream of water, but just closer to my body.

"It's just water, Spence," I tip my head back and wet my mane of curls, matting them down to my head. "It actually feels really good."

"It's just," Spencer shuffles just a little bit closer to me. The tips of his toes touch mine, his whole body flinching when a droplet of water ricochets off of me and hits his chest, "the showers were always cold."

"Oh," I turn and look at the knobs behind me that control the water temperature, "I can make it cold if you want. It's not a big deal if--"

"No, no, I don't want that," he shakes his head, clutching my hands tightly in his. "I don't wanna take another cold shower. It just feels weird. I'm not used to it."

I scrunch up my nose, unlacing our hands and tracing my fingertips up his forearms. I wonder if I should even let myself touch his biceps because if I do, I might completely lose my cool and want to jump his bones. Clearly, he's not ready for sex or any kind of physical intimacy. I didn't even expect us to be showering together any time soon. "I don't like cold showers, either. You know that. Do you wanna get under the water?"

Spencer nods and grabs my hands again, switching our spots so he's directly under the stream. I don't let go of him as he sighs of relief, the water falling over his face and making his hair stick to his forehead. He closes his eyes, dropping his shoulders down. This is, by far, the most relaxed I've seen him all day. He seemed to be relaxed in the car, but now, he has completely let his guard down for the first time. It's a beautiful sight, truly. It's beautiful to see him running his hands through his hair and reaching for his shampoo and fluttering his eyelids. He's always been so beautiful.

I shave my legs while Spencer washes his body, and he spends quite a lot of time doing so. I'm not surprised that he wants to wash every germ off his body, I'd expected that much. And we keep in silence, just washing away the stress and drama and hardships of the last few months. I wish that a simple shower could wash away all the pain that we've been cursed with, but I know that this pain may never go away. The pain of this time will always linger, no matter how hard we try to eradicate it.

"Are you gonna shave?" I ask, switching places one more time with Spencer so I could wash my face.

"You said you liked it so--"

"Yeah, but it's your face. If you wanna shave, then shave. Don't let me stop you," I wipe away the soap from my eyes and smile at Spencer, gesturing to where his razor still sits along the wall.

Spencer runs his hands over his face, feeling his mustache and beard on his fingertips. "I'll keep it for now. Maybe tomorrow I'll clean it up a little but I don't wanna deal with it today."

"Well let's go get some sleep, okay?" I turn around and shut off the water, wringing out my hair so it doesn't drip onto the floor. Spencer gets out and quickly wraps himself in a towel, and when I step out a moment after him, he hands my towel to me. "Thanks."

I head out of the bathroom and reach for my clothes, pulling on a pair of underwear and one of Spencer's old tee-shirts. I dry off my hair a little bit and sit on the edge of the bed, putting lotion on my legs and keeping my eyes on the bathroom door for when Spencer eventually comes out.

He takes forever to get dressed, but when he does, he's wearing a pair of sweatpants and a white tee-shirt, his hair soaked and hanging over his forehead. He drops his towel in the hamper and then he turns on his heel to join me in bed, but freezes in his spot when he sees my towel on the floor. He quickly picks it up off the floor and puts it into the hamper, then he scans the floor of the room for anything else that could be out of place.

"Babe?" I close off the lid on my bottle of lotion and put it away, watching him put a pair of my shoes into the closet and then jam the door closed. "Spencer, if you really wanna clean, do it when you can actually keep your eyes open. Come get some sleep, please."

Spencer lets out an exasperated sigh as his hands drop from the closet handle, and then they smooth through his hair. He nods silently, and his toes drag against the carpet as he brings himself towards the bed.

He falls onto his side, pulling back the duvet and slipping under, letting out a sound close to a moan as his body sinks into the bed. His head falls onto the pillow and he moans louder, his body wiggling under the covers. I smile at his pure and unfiltered ecstasy and pleasure, doing the same and slipping under the duvet with him.

I keep a bit of distance between us though. Usually, I'd slide my leg through his and wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head on his chest and get as close to him as I possibly can. But he's so caught up in the familiarity and comfortability of my bed that I don't want to overwhelm him by touching him. I want him to enjoy his first time in a proper bed in months and not worry about my hands on his skin.

I let out a roaring yawn, rolling onto my side to face Spencer. Now that I'm laying in bed, my exhaustion is setting in yet again. I pull the duvet up to my chin and close my eyes, trying to let myself drift off to sleep.

I'm just about to dip into dreamland when I feel Spencer shift beside me, facing me. I try to ignore it, try to bring myself closer to sleep, try to let us both get the rest that we so desperately need. But I can sense Spencer's gaze on me, and as hard as I try to, I can't ignore it. I just want him to go to sleep. I want him to sleep so he can regenerate and hopefully feel better whenever it is that we wake up. But my forehead is burning with his stare and I can't stop feeling it. Clearly, something is affecting him and that's why he hasn't tried to sleep yet.

To my surprise, Spencer's voice is the one to break through the silence. "Baby?" He's shaky. He's trembling. He's unsure.

I open my eyes, seeing tears pouring down his cheeks and his hand in midair, just a few inches in front of my face. "Spencer," I breathe, watching his hand drops onto the bed between us. "What's wrong?" Spencer squeezes his eyes shut, and his hand clutches the bed sheet until his knuckles turn white. He breathes in harshly through his nose and he draws his knees up to his chest, curling into a tiny ball. "Dove, talk to me."

Spencer's other hand comes down to the bed to join his other, squeezing so tightly that I fear he might rip a hole in the fabric. I see his arms start to shake with the force he's using to hold the bedsheet, hot tears streaming down his cheeks and staining the pillow. He hiccups, but not too loud. Barely loud enough for me to hear. "Lia," he sobs, completely breaking down right before my eyes, "please hold me."

I want to jump his bones. I want to get on top of him and smother him in love and affection and kisses. I want to give him everything I know we've both been craving for months. I want to give him exactly what he's asking for. But I've spent most of my day doing what I can to not overwhelm him and that's not going to change now.

I debate for a moment on how I should touch him first. Should I wipe his tears? Should I hold his hand? Should I wrap my arm around his waist? Should I drag my fingers along his arm? What could I do that won't freak him out?

But then I notice, again, that his eyes are closed. His eyes are squeezed shut and he's not looking at me. I remember how he reacted in the round table room when I touched him when he couldn't see it coming. He jumped and cowered away from me. He didn't take well to getting touched without seeing it.

"Spencer," I whisper, "open your eyes." His eyebrows scrunch up at my request but he doesn't follow it. "Come on, baby, I wanna see your pretty eyes. I haven't been able to see them in so long. Open your eyes for me," I watch Spencer carefully as he holds his breath, forcing his eyelids open, releasing more tears. "There you go, Spence. Thank you, lovey. So pretty. Your eyes are so pretty."

I raise my hand and let it linger in the air for a moment before reaching towards Spencer's face. I drag my fingers along his jawline then lay my hand flat against his cheek. Spencer's lips part when he lets out a shaky sigh, nuzzling his cheek against the palm of my hand. I give him a moment to revel in this type of contact, just staring into his eyes and gauging his reaction. He isn't cowering away and he hasn't screamed at me yet, so I take that as a good sign.

I bring my other hand forward and press my fingers against the back of his hand, feeling him already start to ease his grip. I can't attest for his other hand, but he flattens his hand against the bed, allowing me to lock our fingers together in an awkward, backwards handhold.

"I've got you," I whisper, swiping my thumb across his cheeks to rid his skin of stinging tears. His eyes are locked on mine and he doesn't dare to avert his gaze from my blue eyes that I know he loves so much.

Spencer sucks in a breath and tugs on my hand, wanting me even closer. So I wiggle my hips to diminish the gap between us, leaving some space still. I move my head so we're sharing a pillow, the same pillow that I used to clutch when I was missing Spencer so intensely that I needed to smell his cologne and remember that he would come home to me soon.

"It hurts," he slurs, and his eyelids are so heavy that he can barely keep them open. But he fights with all his strength against the sleep that wants to suck him in, sticking his eyes to me. His eyes plead for help, a type of help that I don't know if I can provide.

"Oh, my baby," I coo, bringing my face right in front of him, "you're safe. You're home. You don't have to go back to that horrible place again. You're right here and you can rest, okay? It's okay to rest now."

I feel him moving under the sheets and it takes everything in me to not look at what he's doing. But I feel his legs touching mine, and then one of his slips between mine a moment later. Even though he initiated this contact, I wait, yet again, for his reaction. His face doesn't change.

"Can I touch you some more?" Spencer nods quickly, his facial hair scratching my palm. "Can I hug you?" He nods again, and with this obvious consent, I almost sigh of relief.

I slide my hand down Spencer's neck, then down his arm, and to his stomach. I wrap my arm around his waist, pulling my body forward so I'm flush against him. With this, he finally lets his eyelids flutter closed, lips parted as he breathes heavily. His skin feels so warm against mine and I can already feel beads of sweat collecting at my hairline, but I ignore their presence.

"Go to sleep," I murmur, bringing our entwined hands up to the pillow between our faces. "I'm here right now, I'm gonna be here when you wake up, I'm gonna be here tomorrow, and the day after, and the next day, and every day after that. I'm not going anywhere. And if you need me then don't hesitate to wake me up. But I need you to get some sleep, okay? Can you do that for me?" Spencer nods yet again, and he flips his hand around so we can properly hold hands. I smile at his responsiveness. "Let me hear you say it, doll."

Spencer nuzzles his cheek against the pillow, scooting a bit closer to me. "I'm gonna try to get some sleep."

"Good," I slip my hand under his tee shirt and rest it flat against his hot skin, earning a small gasp from him, but I don't do any more than that. "I'm right here, baby boy. I'm not gonna let go of your hand and I'm not gonna get out of bed before you. I'll be right here the whole time. I promise, I'm not going anywhere."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"I love you," Spencer whispers but his words are barely coherent as his exhaustion becomes too much to handle. His lips are barely moving and his grip on my hand, and on the sheets, are loosening.

"I love you too, dove."

I watch him closely until I know, for sure, that he's fallen asleep. I wouldn't want his eyes to pop open again and for him to panic. But I keep my promise and I don't let go of his hand, or move my hand from in his shirt, or get out of bed. I just close my eyes and drift off into the most restless sleep I've had yet.

TAGLIST

@babybloodstonebones @bxnnywriting @blameitonthenight21 @feralreid @anepiphany @reidscardigan @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto @4x24 @whollytaciturn @thegingerfairchild @yasminwashere @shrimpyblog @anamelessfacelessnerd @wonderlandhatter @whxt-to-write @just-call-me-non @imagining-in-the-margins @boldlyvoid @homoose @gubler-me-up @thundergunexpresss @eideticmemory @andiebeaword

#nikos north fic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #matthew gray gubler #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #dr reid

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introvertguide · 3 years

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Easy Rider (1969); AFI# 84

The current movie under review from the AFI top 100 is the counterculture road film, Easy Rider (1969). As a note for anybody looking for screen captures, this is also the title of a magazine with many scantily dressed women next to vehicles, so be specific with your google image search. The film combines the hippie lifestyle with the beatnik concept of being free from "the man." It spoke to a lot of Americans at the time who were fighting back against government restrictions on one hand and the freedom of Civil Rights on the other. The film ended up making almost 100x the budget and was one of the first super performing, low budget indie films. The film was written by Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, and Terry Southern. It was produced by Fonda and directed by Hopper. It is funny to think about now, but it was basically Peter Fonda's hippie son and some of his buddies getting together and making a movie about a road trip. Well done! Before we go any further, let's get the normal warning out of the way...

SPOILER WARNING!!! I AM GOING TO SPOIL THE MOVIE THAT DOESN'T REALLY HAVE A MAJOR PLOT!!! WHAT STORY THERE IS I HAVE SPOILED SO WATCH THE FILM FIRST IF YOU DON'T WANT ME TO RUIN IT FOR YOU!!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!

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Wyatt (Peter Fonda) and Billy (Dennis Hopper) are freewheeling motorcyclists. After smuggling cocaine from Mexico to Los Angeles, they sell their haul and receive a large sum of money. With the cash stuffed into a plastic tube hidden inside the Stars & Stripes-painted fuel tank of Wyatt's California-style chopper, they ride eastward aiming to reach New Orleans, Louisiana, in time for the Mardi Gras festival. This all happens either in silence, in Spanish, or beneath the in-coming planes at an airport, so there really isn't any dialogue. It truly is exposition at the most basic level. What the director is basically communicating is "two guys got some money, here's how, now don't worry about it and enjoy the travel montage."

During their trip, Wyatt and Billy stop to repair a flat tire on Wyatt's bike at a farmstead in Arizona and have a meal with the farmer and his family. It is kind of interesting because Wyatt talks later about nobody being willing to help him, yet he is invited to use the barn and tools and then invited to have dinner with the whole family. Later, Wyatt picks up a hippie hitch-hiker, and he invites them to visit his commune, where they stay for the rest of the day. The notion of "free love" appears to be practiced, with two of the women, Lisa and Sarah, seemingly sharing the affections of the hitch-hiking commune member before turning their attention to Wyatt and Billy. The people at the commune seem to like Wyatt and want him to stay, but Billy doesn't seem to fit in and he is antsy to get back on the road. As the bikers leave, the hitch-hiker gives Wyatt some LSD for him to share with "the right people".

Further down the road, the two see a parade and playfully join the back. The pair are immediately arrested for "parading without a permit" and thrown in jail. There, they befriend lawyer George Hanson (Jack Nicholson), who has spent the night in jail after overindulging in alcohol. After the mention of having done work for the ACLU along with other conversation, George helps them get out of jail and decides to travel with Wyatt and Billy to New Orleans. As they camp that night, Wyatt and Billy introduce George to marijuana. As an alcoholic and a "square", George is reluctant to try it due to his fear of becoming "hooked" and it leading to worse drugs but he quickly relents. It is funny when Wyatt calls it "grass" and George doesn't know what that means. I don't know about other areas, but any 13-year-old where I live would most likely know what Wyatt was talking about.

Stopping to eat at a small-town Louisiana diner, the trio attract the attention of the locals. There is a booth packed with young girls next to a booth packed with what I can best describe as hicks. The girls in the restaurant think the trio are exciting, but the local men and a police officer make degrading comments and taunts. Wyatt, Billy, and George decide to leave without any fuss. They make camp outside town and talk about how their freedom scares a lot of people. In the middle of the night, a group of locals attack the sleeping trio, beating them with clubs. Billy screams and brandishes a knife, and the attackers leave. Wyatt and Billy suffer minor injuries, but George has been bludgeoned to death. Wyatt and Billy wrap George's body in his sleeping bag, gather his belongings, and vow to return the items to his family. This happens really fast and I wasn't really sure what had occurred or that George was dead. First time I saw this, I was looking at something else for 30 seconds and turned back to see Wyatt and Billy going through a wallet. I rewatched and the time between George going to sleep and the duo going through his wallet after death was about 37 seconds.

Wyatt and Billy continue to New Orleans and find a brothel that George had told them about. Taking prostitutes Karen (Karen Black) and Mary (Toni Basil) with them, Wyatt and Billy wander the parade-filled streets of the Mardi Gras celebration. They end up in a French Quarter cemetery, where all four ingest the LSD the hitch-hiker had given to Wyatt and experience a bad trip. I had to double check the name, but it is the same Toni Basil of "Oh Mickey, You're so fine, You're so fine you blow my mind, Hey Mickey!" fame.

The next morning, as they are overtaken on a two-lane country road by two local men in an older pickup truck, the passenger in the truck reaches for a shotgun, saying he will scare them. As they pass Billy, the passenger fires, and Billy has a lowside crash. The truck passes Wyatt who has stopped, and Wyatt rides back to Billy, finding him lying flat on the side of the road and covered in blood. Wyatt tells Billy he's going to get help and covers Billy's wound with his own leather jacket. Wyatt then rides down the road toward the pickup as it makes a U-turn.

Passing in the opposite direction, the passenger fires the shotgun again, this time through the driver's-side window. Wyatt's riderless motorcycle flies through the air and comes apart before landing and becoming engulfed in flames. A helicopter shot shows the carnage as the truck drives away and the credits roll.

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This movie is not what I would call my personal favorite, but many critics have praised it for the dialogue, visuals, and story. I am assuming when mention is made of the dialogue, it is in reference to Jack Nicholson, because the two lead characters are that mix of uncomfortable and annoying that you get with sometimes who is inebriated in some way. They repeat themselves, say phrases that make no sense and then laugh about it, and constantly say "what?" so the line is just repeated. The actors were often high during the making of the film and that is not at all surprising.

It seems funny to me that Dennis Hopper acted, directed, and partly wrote the script for the film, yet he gave himself the part of basically the third wheel. The character of Billy seems like he wants to be rich and have nice things but has fallen into the hippie lifestyle. He seems uncomfortable with the drug deal at the beginning. He doesn't want to pick up the hitcher. He wants to leave the commune and get back on the road. He insults George and has to apologize. He is the first to talk about the girls at the diner. He wants to go get prostitutes at the place that George talked about. He is the one that flips off the guys in the truck. Billy is the driving force of everything that goes wrong.

We can't talk about this film without mentioning the soundtrack, because it is kind of what the movie is famous for. Songs on the sound track include: "The Pusher" and "Born to Be Wild" (Steppenwolf), "The Weight" (The Band), "If 6 Was 9" (Jimi Hendrix), and "It's Alright, Ma" (Bob Dylan). Try putting this soundtrack on while driving and you will realize how perfect it is for a road trip. I don't think there has been a better grouping of driving songs.

So does this movie belong on the Top 100 American movies? Well, I guess. It was a watershed independent film during a time of major change in America and the world. It caught the interest of many in a generation and that is interesting enough to experience. Now would I recommend it? Not really. The film was kind of boring and the end is not satisfying. It is fascinating on many levels and I thought that the conversations that involved the character of George were good, but all lot of the movie is kind of slog. The campfire conversation between Wyatt, Billy and the hippie is just painful. It is maybe ironic, but this is a road trip movie that doesn't really move. It is worth watching if you are interested in the time period.

#easy rider #peter fonda #dennis hopper #jack nicholson #indie films #road trip #60s #hippies #introvert #introverts

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groovyzombiellama · 4 years

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Should I Tell Her?

Title: Should I Tell Her?

Requested? Yes.

Plot: A bit of Isaac’s POV on how you make him feel and him thinking weather he should say anything.

Word count: 923

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There it is again, that smile. How can someone just drive me crazy with just a smile? Ever since I first saw it, I can't stop thinking about it. As much as I can't stop thinking about her. As much as my heart says I should make a move and ask her out, my mind is opposed to it. After all, she's my best friends younger sister. Who knows if he would ever accept me dating her, seeing how strict he is with her dating even outside the pack? And if she were to date me, she'd be in so much more danger than she's already in, just by being the Alpha's sister. I remember the day I met her so clearly, she changed my life completely. Only thanks to her was I able to come out of my shell and have fun, not worrying about anything else around me. Her radiant personality just lit up any room she entered and all I could do was stare in amazement. I remember all the good things along with the bad ones.

I remember when she'd invite the pack over for a movie night, she really loves watching movies, especially horror, which always fascinated me about her. A girl as kind and as gentle as her being into horror and thriller movies. I remember the look on Scott's face once when nobody in the pack could make it to the movie night, and I didn't want her to feel sad, or have to watch the movie alone, so I came over. When he saw just the two of us on the couch, with popcorn in our hands, he wasn't really pleased. As if he could sense that I liked her. He wasn't angry or anything, because he knows I respect him and his sister, and that I would never do anything she wasn't comfortable with, but still, I could see a slight warning in his eyes. So I stayed away, despite my feelings growing daily. They say that the person who you think about when you first wake up is wither your pain or your happiness. Y/N is both for me.

It pains me that I can't be around her as much as I would like, and every time she gets hurt, my heart tears into a million pieces, but even just hearing her laugh makes me so happy I feel like my heart is jumping in joy. The worst I've ever felt in my life was when she was taken by the Ghost Riders. Even everything my father did combined never made me feel like this. I was so afraid of what might happen to her. I couldn't lose her. I didn't sleep, I didn't eat, only what was necessary to have enough strength to spend all my time looking for her. In that moment when I saw her emerge from where they held her captive, managing to use all of the packs knowledge on the creatures and survival to escape, I felt my heart swell up. She rushed into Scott's open arms, and I felt my knees go weak, as all the stress and fear got to her, she passed out. She was in the hospital for a few weeks and I made sure to visit her every single day, ignoring my heart screaming at me to stay with her 24/7.

But since nobody knew about my feelings for her, so I had to keep hiding them and just settle with visiting her every now and then to ease my worry. I didn't know it was possible for my feelings for her to keep growing, but when she skipped school to stay with me because I had another bad fight with my father clued me in on something. It made me realize that I was in fact falling in love with her. Up until now it was only a crush, that I thought would pass since I thought it started because she hung out with the pack a lot and so if I spent time without her more, it will just go back to the way it was. But here I was, four years later, with all of the feelings, that have grown a whole lot since they first started. I didn't choose to fall for her, but if given another chance, I think I'd choose to fall for her all over again. How can you not fall for someone with a personality so magnetic and amazing. I don't know if I should tell Scott about it. I've been thinking about it more and more about how I could break the news to him and how he would react to it.

Would he be angry at me and tell me he doesn’t want me dating his sister, or would he be happy, because he knows me and he knows I’d never do anything to harm her, ever? It’s getting harder and harder for me to hide my feelings and just watch her go on dates with other guys. Maybe I should tell her how I feel and just lay it off my chest. And if she doesn’t feel the same, our strong friendship and connection in the pack would hopefully not let it become awkward. I’d hate to lose her if she doesn’t feel the same way that I do, but if she does, why not tell her and be the happiest man in the world? I think I should have a talk with Scott first and then I’ll tell her about everything.

---***---

Sorry for being MIA for so long again, after literally saying I’m back, it’s just that I’m terrible at organising myself and figuring out what to do first, and with this whole newfound situation, my professors don’t follow any organisation or guidelines and just send homework after homework which is insane to handle, but I’ll do my best to write as much as I can <3

@cokecola4211 I forgot to tag you all this time 😑 was this one your request?

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magnetothehedgehog · 3 years

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Hi Everyone, With the new Sonic Trailers out and my unbelievable Hive mind Connection with Some of Sega's greatest and brightest staff, Allow me to once again Try and Predict the premise of the next Sonic Game or Sonic things.

I am so incredibly sad to say that I have successfully guessed tons of Sonic plots and ideas. Though since I never got the opportunity to post anything for several different reasons nobody will believe me.

That's cool though at this point not really mad or care that much. I have come to terms I'm being discouraged from pursuing any related Career stuff I had wanted to pursue in the area.

Just for the wall so far

1.I created a Tail Transforming character (Based off of tails) all the way back in like 2008-2010. Her Name Was Sammy. She also had two tails like tails but her main perk was it transforming into different thing. I did actually post about her in amino once prior to tangled release.

1A. Fast Forward. Tangle. A tail Transforming hero. Crazy

2. I had really wanted a sonic fighting game. Like I could totally see how one would happen. Had never heard of sonic the fighters prior. Pretty much had the idea around 2010

2A. Bam Rise of lyric. Sonic Fighting game. Wow. Incredible. How could this happen.

3.ahh heres a good one. Around 2011 while I was still doodling and spriting my sonic comic/animation series storylines and plotlines, I came up with this villain that would force sonic and my heroes to go to different worlds (through portals)and battle to win each one before they could finally face him.

One of the world themed was a zombie apocalypse, I liked the idea of someone like Sonic or shadow getting infected because someone with their speed would be hyper fast and make for an interesting dynamic in a Mobian themed apocalypse.

3A. Fast Forward and holy tarp. How in the heck. Zombocalpyse. I admit since I never got to refine my idea they definitely worked it out better. But a male villain who forces the crew to go through portals until they can finally face him? With a give or take here or there that's pretty much the premise of the Idw comics during that era. At this point it had happened already so much I wasn't even surprised.

4.You can't tell me there Is more. So in one of my fan stories I had come up with different wisps(I still have a few new ones I just made) but one of them was pip that alpha wisp, actually posted about this on amino. Basically he gets stronger the more he uses his power. But in one storyline they had to go underwater so I gave him a little Diver suit to wear. That gave me the idea to maybe give the wisps other apparel. Quite recently I thought about giving them little hats and things

4A.Guess.Heckin. What. New trailer drops. Wisps with apparel. I realize it's not the most revolutionary of ideas but are you kidding me.

This isn't even scratching the surface of all of them. But I decided heck, clearly I'm not getting anywhere why not try and guess the new Sonic Game plotline and Sonic movie?Who knows maybe I'll crack open one of their secrets first.

So first in line, the game.

Sonic Colors 2 not the remaster of sonic colors 1.

Sonic Colors two takes place right after Forces. Since the phantom ruby either fritzed out or exploded it sent Eggman in the wisp galaxy. He only ever grabbed a few planets before via tractor beam but now he's in the whole system. So he decides to give the wisps another go. Except this time, he wants to awaken the great Wisp or "The World Devourer" (Cough Cough MerloW?) after he finds ruins talking about it.

Once again Needing his aid and turning to Sonic and Tails with his now perfect translator, Wiz Sonic and Tails must now explore the other planets in the wisps solar system in a race against Eggman to stop him before he releases the The World Devourer.

While on this subject prepare for even more wisps and even more planets.We already know there are other wisps we haven't seen planets for thanks to the wisps in lost world. All on all I think this is a pretty likely explanation. Might see wisps combinations like we had in sonic simulator maybe not.

Oh and btw

This? Sorry that cube effect is from spike wisp. No Infinite :'(

Now onto the sonic movies! Won't spoil too much but here is what your lineup is probably gonna look like if they continue to succeed.

1.Sonic ofc

2.Sonic,Tails,Knuckles and the first Chaos emerald

3.Sonic Tails, Knuckles, Maybe Amy, all the other chaos emeralds and Perfect Chaos. Yep the whole second movie is a setup to perfect chaos trying to flood earth. Ah so we might get Tikal back! Yayyy

4. Shadow the edgehog. It's only natural, he comes next in Game order anyways, plus we have already seen what Gun is willing to do to get sonic. Literally hired robotnik.

5.This is actually my sister's guess but Silver and Blaze. I think it's a pretty solid guess.

Well that's pretty much all I have to say. Discuss.

#Sonic 2021 #Sonic Colors 2 #sonic theory #Sonic Predictions #Sonic Stuff #So Profound and So sad at the same time #smh

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itsnotjeromekayy-blog · 5 years

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Guns, Love, Roses

Written by Jerome A. Kay

Chapter 1;

Love. An emotion described as being almost as addictive as any other drug in the world. Since the beginning of time, love is an emotion described as being complex and unpredictable. The only feeling in the world that can cause happiness, sadness, anger, passion, jealousy, and in some cases, a mixture of all. It’s an emotional state of being vulnerable, and a constant surprise of not knowing whats going to happen next. So why is it that love becomes an emotion that we strive to understand and figure out, yet when we explore and experience it, it can hurt and potentially destroy us? The answer is simple. As human beings, we can't help but feel the need to be wanted. We seek friendship and companionship as a way to cope with everyday problems, and having the support you need with friends and your significant other makes life just that bit easier. The people you hang out with defines you, and makes you who you are today. Friendship, relationships, and companionship come at a cost, which is time. To balance sacrificing time to maintain, grow and meet new people is something that even I find difficult to find the answer to. I guess we all go through life differently, right? In order to experience this, you must let your walls crumble for another person to enter your life for them to see whats on the other side of the wall and they too must do the same because friendships and relationships work around what we call trust. Without trust there is no foundation to any type of relationship, and so this story which you’re about to read involves heavily around respect, loyalty, and honour. By following these three codes, and act upon them, you become trustworthy to others around you too. Stay true to your words, and keep promises that you make, because by acting upon what you say- demonstrates the type of person you are both to them, and to yourself for you are without a doubt, true to your word. For the people we love, we hold three seperate masks which we put on, then off- depending on the circumstances. One mask for your family- one mask for your friends- and one mask for yourself. In this chapter, I’m putting on a mask for the friends which has made me who I am today.

I’m going to take you back to the city of Melbourne, Australia- where it all started. More specifically, the inner suburbs of the west. Labelled one of the roughest sides in Melbourne where ironically, I first learnt what brotherhood love truly was. If you lived in the western suburbs of Melbourne, YKB was a well known troubled Asian youth gang that originated from the suburbs of Kings Park, a suburb neighbouring St. Albans which was filled with nothing but Vietnamese families who immigrated here back in the early 1970’s. It stood for Young Kings Park Boys and, if you didn’t have enough money to live in Boxhill or Springvale- or any Asian parts of the eastern suburbs, you wounded up here in the west- which was filled with a higher rate of crime and was considered the roughest part of Melbourne. Yes, you guessed it- Kings Park was one of them. Children playgrounds would be filled with used syringes, house burglary was common, people used and sold drugs, and trap houses were everywhere. It was to nobody’s surprise that joining YKB became almost too easy. However- I’ll stop you there, because I’ll be totally honest, we weren’t a gang. We were just highschool friends consisting of only 10 of us within our friendship circle who caused nothing but trouble in Year 9 at a school called Copperfield College, located in the heart of Kings Park. We honestly didn’t give a fuck about school and always talked about girls and looking forward to going clubbing when we were older but man I had to say, the teachers and principal especially- hated us. Detention and suspensions became my middle name, but to my surprise- none of us had gotten expelled. In class, we did nothing but throw pencils and highlighters at one another, make paper planes and throwing at each other, scratching the tables with our initials and drawing dicks and balls, and my favourite prank yet- rubbing the tip of the pen really fast on the bench- causing it to heat up and touch other students in the face or arm with it, leaving a small burn mark. We made the art teacher cry once for calling her a slut and made her quit. Fighting of course, was our favourite. We would all write our names on a tiny piece of paper, put it in a hat, and shake it around and the two names which popped up had to fight at lunch time inside the boys toilets where we filmed it, laughed, and became our primary source of entertainment. Lunch time fights was my only reason why I even came to school- otherwise I’d either not turn up or wag class to go steal at the milkbar next door or ride our bikes around the area. To put it simply, we loved the art of misbehaving, and we loved doing it so long as we had the company of doing it with one another because to me- no matter what we did or what we got up to, I felt like I belonged somewhere- and the feeling of being wanted and being called part of the boys disregarded all thoughts in relation to consequential thinking when it came down to doing things which were considered immoral.

Things started getting serious when we started trouble with particular kids in school who had older brothers or cousins that were affiliated with a particular gang whom they called themselves Little St. Albans- LAS for short, who began mocking us, intimidating us, saying shit like “what are you gonna do?” Or “you guys are nothing!” Just because they were a known gang didn’t mean shit to us just because we were just a group of mates who didn’t have a name. Wayne, one of our mates from school, decided to label us as Young Kings Park Boys, and we didn’t question it as we accepted him as the leader. We were now officially called a gang and LSA laughed at our faces because they couldn’t take us seriously until they realised we were ballsy enough to call them out for fights. We thought they were just all talk until they’d rock up infront of the school gates at the end of school, waiting for us to fight- and we did. Every couple weekends we would rally together and fight against LSA. We fought hard, and tried our best to stick up for ourselves, but lost every single time because we were outnumbered and sometimes they’d use weapons and played from dirty from time to time. They didn’t like to lose, and neither did we. Winning was a must because we had too much pride and ego. We began asking around kids from school who were down to fight with us and were more than welcome to be a part of the boys. To our surprise, our numbers grew only just slightly and we were on par against LSA who finally shook hands with us and said we earnt their respect and that they’ll finally leave us alone on the condition that we helped them fight against a gang known as Prosperity Sunshine Boys- which was also short for PSB. LSA and PSB had been fighting for a couple months now- apparently over a girl and we got involved. PSB, were on a whole new level. Even with YKB and LSA combined we were no match for them during gang fights, outnumbering us almost 2:1. But we still fought, because we were loved it, despite getting our asses kicked. Word went around quick about the drama between YKB, LSA, and PSB. Our gang name grew larger in reputation, and so did our ego. We wanted to get bigger, better, and stronger.

In order to do so, we needed more members. We would go out of our way to threaten other kids from neighbouring schools and if they arched up or fought back we would stop harassing them, and instead- shake their hand and ask them to join. Another way we got people to join was to test how much balls they’d have- so we’d tell them to go to Coles and come out with a bag full of stolen lollies and chips. If they came out without being caught they’d became YKB instantly- and we’d eat it all and leave it nothing for them. We were looking for specific boys who were wiling to stand their ground and proved that they had the guts to stick up for themselves and did as we told- and that was all. Just be loyal, respect us, and be honourable. Racism around this time was quite predominant. We would be labelled as having small dicks, squinty eyes, and were called gooks or fobs by other races- the wogs and islanders in particular who had their own cliche. The one insult that we all hated, was being told to go back to where we belong, or go back to China because to them- all Asians were “apparently” all from China. We didn’t hesitate to put a fist in someone’s mouth for saying that, because we were defensive against our own race and stuck up for helpless kids who were victim of racism because we took pride in who we were, and where we derived from. Deep down, we all knew that the only place we really belonged to- was with one another. Just by spending time and hanging together as a group gave us a sense of purpose and identify- and our bond as a gang grew along with it. That’s how I met my three bestfriends- Jake, Dylan, and Wayne. They were more friendlier than the others, because they wouldnt fight or seek trouble unless we really had to, and they stood by me through thick and thin. I remember the story clearly- the 10 of us, at Watergardens station steps, Little Henry from YKB called Wayne a bitch if he didn’t smack a cyclist and take his bike. Without hesitation, Wayne did so and the boys had a laugh as the man tried to give chase. Wayne stumbled and struggled to get away and that’s what made it even funnier. Another story about Dylan, was when we got into a fight with a kid who claimed he was telling everyone he was YKB at St. Alban's train station, but after confronting him, some old wog guy tried breaking up the fight and that was when we turned our attention to him instead- jumped him, bashed him, and it was Dylan who smashed a bottle on top of his head which sent him to juvy. I remember this day like it was yesterday, watching and laughing at the video footage of us running away from the scene and seeing Dylan bottle him, fleeing, and tripping over his own shoe lace. That assault went viral in the area and I remember clearly all 5 of us running away as that man laid still and lifeless, bleeding from his head and his daughter there crying. He was labelled a hero for doing it amongst the boys- no matter how fucked up the situation was. We encouraged violence. If at any given time we said we were going to do something- whether it be to hit, stab, or jump someone- we would do it. Our threats weren’t empty because we stayed true to our words. None of us were shit talkers.

Being a part of any gang- YKB especially- came the reputation, and depending on what you did or how hard you repped the gang came the amount of attention you earnt from those who knew of you- and people would suck up to you, claiming were a sick cunt or try to befriend you. It was an ego feeder- but with the goods, came the bads. Mum would always tell me that If you seek trouble, trouble will come to you- and in our case trouble would always be around the corner. We would try to look for ways to get into fights with either ourselves or random strangers- we would argue over pointless shit- for example over the last cigarette. We’d spent most of our time playing a computer game called Dota at Akira in St. Albans. If we weren’t at Akira or hanging out at St. Albans station steps with LSA, we would all catch a bus to Watergardens which became our secondary domaine. Here, we spent the rest of our days skipping school and hogging the Maximum Tune machines at Hoyts. Since we were poor, we mostly scabbed $2 off kids from strangers to play the game and hussle kids from other schools to get it because they were easy targets. Some of us were good at stealing, using our five finger discount skills at popular retail stores like Ozmosis, JB HI FI, Big W and, Woolworths- being our favourite place because that’s where it held all the lollies and bags of chips. You had to be good at it cause once staff and security picked up that we were doing it all the time, we got banned and the security guards would all know us by face and by name- which was what forced us into kicking it around the station steps of Watergardens after school for hours where we wasted time mocking people, smoking, threatening people, and again, fighting people for no reason, even if it was over a stare or looking at any of us the wrong way. If we didn’t have money, we would walk around the suburban area, robbing people for their belongings- jewelery, wallets, phones, and in some cases, peoples shirts (if It was branded) or even their shoes regardless if it fit or not. To put it simply, we seeked the thrill of wanting to be rebellious to gain attention and to give ourselves a name that we weren’t to be messed around with. The one thing though, about us boys in particular- is that we all had something to prove towards one another. Just because we were a gang who all fought for eachother and believed in the same idea and principle- we also contested one another as an act to prove who was more superior and better. We would have one on one fights between eachother and if you turned down a fight you wouldn’t be part of the boys anymore and be considered a pussy. You had to be a fighter, and you had to back one another up and do as they say, and to not ask questions. That was how we showed respect.

Highpoint was a no go, considering every time we went we would fight with boys from PSB. Sometimes we win, sometimes we’d lose- depending on how many we’d bump into there. VIP nights at Highpoint were held a couple times a year- which meant massive discounts on all clothes. We didn’t give a fuck about discounts or clothes because we only went for one purpose- PSB. We all knew they’d be there and, without a doubt, we would come through those shopping centre doors with weapons- and in numbers and LSA would be there with us. Fighting became much more intense as chairs would be thrown and other bystanders would be hit- it was chaotic. For fun, one of the boys were heavily into spray painting and thought it was fun to spray paint the initials YKB across the car park of Watergardens, then eventually it stretched into St. Albans. Sometimes we did it at Highpoint, but PSB would just spray paint their tags right over ours and there wasn’t any point- or risk. We all taught eachother how to spray paint and eventually once we got good, we made an effort to spray paint the fences of peoples house near the train tracks, so that everyone who caught the Sunbury line would see our tags which stretched out until we stopped at Footscray- because, we didn’t fuck around with guys from that area. We knew who to disrespect- and knew who was worth giving respect too, and the boys in Footscray were one of them.

Three years later after the creation of YKB- lots had changed. No one respected each other, loyalty was a joke to some people- and there was no honour. There were a lot of unnecessary agression and violence within our circle- and also to other people. A lot of people in the gang, especially the new kids who joined- acted cocky and big headed, and only joined for their own reputation or a name for themselves. The group almost tripled in size, and it was only by mistake that this happened because people even I didnt know was in it, who began inviting others- and others began inviting their cousins, and it got annoying because we didn’t know who was friend, or foe. Not even Wayne was able to control the gang. Now that I think back, I’m not going to lie- were absolute drop kicks. We were all young and immature, uneducated and just full of nothing but energy, testosterone, and pride. Most of us began dropping out after Year 10, most of us came from broken families and did nothing with our lives- yet as obvlious kids, we aall visioned ourselves to be in each other’s lives till the very end because we claimed we were loyal and that we loved one another. Predominately in the Asian gangs, especially Vietnamese - they had a saying which involved the term Anh Em. This means brother, in Vietnamese and was heavily used as a sign of respect. Even if you weren’t Vietnamese like myself, you would still get called one. And in my days, a lot of asian gangs were Vietnamese-based. It wasn’t long until the term got used loosely- and without meaning.

Some of these memories back when it was only just the 10 of us was why I purely stayed, but as new members starting joining I lost the respect for the group entirely but some of us, like myself, still needed a place to belong- hence why we stayed despite the two facing, bitching and hate grow like cancer within our circle. I began to hate showing loyalty- especially to specific boys in the group who didn’t deserve it, but you had to get involved no matter if the situation was big, small, or life threatening. What pisses me off sometimes- is if you needed help with your own fights, most boys would say they would help but wouldn’t even show face. Where’s the loyalty in that? There wasn’t any true love for this gang anymore and despite spending most of my teenage years with them, I needed to find another place to find what love meant, because I was wasting my time hanging out with friends who weren’t beneficial for my life. I made a Tumblr back when everyone thought it was cool. I posted many photos of the boys and what we got up to and I remember writing something about me wanting to leave and wanted to find somewhere else I could belong to without all the violence and to my surprise I received an anonymous messaged me which said, "I can change you.” I asked who she was by replying to her message and moments later she revealed herself to me and I didn’t hesitate for a second asking for her phone number. This is the beginning of how I opened up the next chapter to how I experienced love with a girl.

After graduating high school, I grew out of the gang phase. YKB slowly died down, along with its drama. Some of the boys branched off and made their own gang, bringing some of the boys with them. Others dwelled deeper into the harder drugs such as methamphetamine and heroin, and mind you most of us weren’t even eighteen yet, destroying their lives at a very early age of addiction and dependency. Majority of us had police records consisting of theft, assault, and burglary. Some of us were in juvy, jail, or deported and we all knew it just wasn’t the same. But as we got older, we believed that it was best we walked our seperate ways. Till this day, I still keep Wayne, Jake and Dylan as mates because they were the only ones who stood by me through thick and thin. As for the rest of the guys, it’s a hi and bye if I do ever see or bump into them. I’ll always remember being apart of the group, as it showed me what brotherhood love really stood for.

In loving memory of Sorhana M.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Sequel

Conclusion

#PTSD

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leatherjacket-lovesong · 7 years

Text

soundcheck - dominic/elvis

It's not the first time you get summoned in the middle of the night to pick up Elvis. And you know for a fact that it won't be the last. Ever since he lost Mattie, he's had you like a taxi service on speed dial. You don't even remember the last Saturday night he let you sleep.

It is, however, the first time you've arrived at a party to find that he's already gone. And it takes you fifteen missed calls and several loops around the block to locate him...

Slumped on a bench. Down by the canal. Cutting a jagged silhouette against the glistening gloom.

You're not even going to deny the horrible thoughts that jump into your head.

Did he consider throwing himself in? Had he called you up to save him? What if you hadn't been quick enough? What if you'd decided not to come?

He doesn't speak as you sit down next to him, and you're glad — in a way — because you're currently preoccupied with trying to swallow all of the questions you'll never be stupid enough to ask. He doesn't look at you either. Just thumbs a cigarette out of a packet, takes a few drags after lighting up and then passes it soundlessly to you.

Like a thank you. Or a sorry.

Or some typical Elvis-like combination of the two.

You nod your acceptance even though he won't see it. Spend the next ten minutes clouding out the intrusive thoughts with smoke.

Nobody sees Elvis like this. Nobody other than you.

Quiet Elvis. Thoughtful Elvis. All too-big mouth zipped tight and the bandages around his broken heart coming loose.

You're the first to speak, even though you sense he doesn't want you to.

"Come on then, let's get your drunk arse home."

Elvis's drunk arse is too sozzled to even stand upright on it's own, so it takes a little bit of clever manoeuvring and lots of thanking fuck that you still go to the gym, to finally get him into the passenger seat of your car. For most of the drive back to his flat you're more worried about him potentially throwing up on your leather interior than you getting a speeding ticket because you never once look at what you're clocking.

It's an emergency, you tell yourself. And you don't even need to convince yourself, because five minutes in Elvis decides to open the fucking car door with the explanation that he 'needs a piss' and you have to juggle control of both your nervous system and the steering wheel as you yank him back in by the elbow, then slam down the child locks.

It's one thing to consider chucking yourself into a canal because your fiance died.

It's another to throw yourself out of your best mate's speeding car just because you need a piss.

By the time you pull up in front of his block of flats, your nerves are so frazzled, you're certain they're sparking, and it takes you all of your strength to stand on your own two feet.

Elvis wrestles with his seatbelt, then fights with his door and then spills out onto the tarmac head first when you release the lock.

"Need a piss!" He's already jerking at his belt as you heave him up. "Need a piss, can't wait."

"Fucking hell, just hang on a minute!"

"Can't. Gonna piss meself, gotta go." And before you have a chance to intervene, he's propping himself against the roof of your car and aiming a stream against your back wheel.

"Fuck's sake, Ellie." You throw your arms up in exasperation, and spin away from him. Take deep breaths. Count slowly to ten.

You are not going to stand there and hold him up while he gives your car a golden shower. No matter how fucking drunk or suicidal he may be.

"You're a knob." You tell him, pointedly. Even though you're certain he's heard it a thousand times from you before.

"I'm a massive knob." He agrees.

And when you turn, slowly, frowning, because it's not like him to concur, you immediately yelp and screw your eyes shut, because Elvis is waving his dick at you with devoted pride.

"Christ Almighty! Put it away!" Your voice sounds oddly high-pitched in your throat and you whip your head around frantically to make sure nobody's around to see.

Elvis melts into a heap of cackling laughter, dangerously close to his slowly spreading puddle of piss.

You genuinely consider getting back into your car and leaving him there.

He's a wanker and a lost cause and he always has been. Ever since you were kids, ever since you met. Ever since he tied your Mum's favourite floral bed-sheet around his wrists and threw himself down your stairs shouting 'I've got a parachute!" you knew your life would end up like this.

Taking care of Elvis. Cleaning up all of his mess. Taping together bits of broken bone and broken heart.

He doesn't know that when his 'parachute' didn't open and his face connected with your mum's hard wood floor, you kept his tooth.

You hope he never does.

Because more than anything, Elvis is your best mate. And honestly, honourably, that's enough. You don't need any more than this.

You shove a begrudging hand out and he grabs it. Hauls himself up. Tosses an arm gratefully round your neck then leans in.

"Come on, then." He snickers, "My drunk arse isn't home yet."

The lift in Elvis's block is out of order, as usual, so getting him up fifteen flights of stairs without the two of you spilling over the banister requires some rather precise tetris-like movements. You've done this before. Ten dozen times. And as a result you've got it down to a fine art.

A somewhat clumsy and slightly obscene fine art. But a fine art none-the-less.

You just wish Elvis's hipbone didn't feel quite so sharp against your palm and that the sinewy arm hooked around your neck didn't feel quite so tight.

By the time you reach his flat door, you're both red in the face and gasping for breath and the temperature of your combined body heat is scorching.

You prop Elvis against the doorframe while you pillage his pockets for keys. He makes crass comments you prefer not to remember when your hands delve into his jeans.

He's drunk, you remind yourself.

He's drunk and nothing that he says is anything that he means.

(As tempting as some of his invitations may be.)

He's drunk and you're not, and two years ago you promised Mattie on her deathbed that you'd take care of him.

Though looking back you know it was more like 'continue to take care of him' because it''s not as though you hadn't already spent the majority of your life trailing after Elvis, avoiding pot holes and sweeping up the debris and micro-managing certain aspects of his life so that the idiot didn't end up dead.

You're the sole and invisible reason for all of Elvis's success and you're surprisingly okay with it.

What you're not okay with, however, is Elvis suddenly deciding to throw himself at you as soon as you get the door open and what you're definitely, one-hundred-percent not okay with is just how weak the sensation of his lips on yours makes your knees.

It's a moment of complete confusion. All too busy hands and too busy lips and Elvis's body-weight pushing you in through the door.

Tangled feet. Tangled hearts.

This isn't what he wants. Not really. Not deep down.

Not as he pins you up against the wall. And not as his fingers creep like thieves under your clothes.

Your feet slide against the carpet. He wedges a bony knee between your thighs. You try to protest. Try to formulate something that might sound a bit like words. But you can't get your mouth to work, because every time you try speak Elvis steals the very breath from your lungs.

It's not romantic. There's no tenderness in it. Just a fight. Just crashing of teeth and crashing of jaws and urgent ferocity from Elvis that you've never witnessed before. He tastes like Stella and ashtrays and something you can only hope is not vomit. And when his teeth find your bottom lip, and his hands find your belt, you grab the lapels of his jacket then try to shove him off.

Because it doesn't work like this. This isn't how it's supposed to go.

"Elvis." You manage his name and it leaves your mouth raw. "Elvis, no."

But it doesn't matter. Nothing does. Because his wretched mouth's trailing a hot line down your throat, and the cheeky bastard has anchored himself to grind against your hipbone, and you become faintly aware that your jeans are now undone and...

FUCKFUCKFUCK.

Your hands round his wrists, tight enough to hurt.

Because you could do this. You really could. You could do this because you know he won't remember. Because he's too drunk to give a fuck. And he wants someone. Needs someone. Anyone at all.

Your voice.

His voice.

Too sharp.

Too soft.

"I can't—"

"You can."

"I'm not—"

"I know."

A beat.

Your forehead against his. Your heart torn in two.

"Don't do this to me, mate... Please don't..."

This isn't what you want. Elvis, drunk, throwing himself at you because he's desperate and he's lonely and he didn't manage to cop-off at the party, so you've become his last resort.

This'll never be what you want. And you hate yourself for even considering taking advantage of him. Hate yourself for reacting to his touch, hate your body for enjoying it.

Because you've thought about it, of course you have. How it might go. How, in a perfect world, it might all play out. But it's all just a juvenile fantasy, a far off dream to keep you company at night when it's just you and your hand. (Because he's crept into those thoughts. Of course he has.)

And you're not an idiot. Far from it, in fact.

You know Elvis doesn't want you. Wouldn't want you. Couldn't.

Not you. Not Dominic Wood.

So you grit your teeth, and you bite your tongue, and you push him away. Tender but firm.

Right now, more than ever, your best mate needs you to be strong.

"Ellie, you're really drunk." You speak slowly. Softly. Maintain eye contact as your thumbs rub soothing circles against his wrists. And it hurts you to say it, hurts more than you'd ever have imagined to confess, "I want you, I do. More than I care to admit. So much it fucking scares me sometimes, mate. And I know you well enough to know that you're not going to remember a single fucking word of this tomorrow, so I can say it. But Elvis... fucking hell, man... I don't want you like THIS..."

Your palms are sweating.

So are his.

And when he suddenly turns his face away and tries to yank himself out of your grip you realise 'I don't want you' is the only part of your speech that's actually gone in.

"Shit. Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dominic. Course you don't want this. Shit. Shit."

Elvis flusters, struggles out apologies in a voice that sounds dangerously close to breaking. Rejection suddenly the only thing that makes sense to him.

Immediately you reach back out for him. Cup your hands round his face. "Hey, hey, shut up. No. Listen to me. This doesn't change anything. We're still mates."

Elvis looks anything but convinced. You press on,

"And if by some incredible twist of fate, this isn't just the alcohol talking, then we'll discuss it. In the morning. When you're sober. Okay?"

He seems to consider you offer for a moment, before finally giving in and nodding his head.

"Good. Now..." You haul one of his arms around your shoulders, clamp one of your arms around his waist, "...I think it's time you went to bed."

Getting Elvis to bed proves to be a bit more difficult than you originally thought. When he tries to get undressed, he succeeds only in getting all tangled up in his clothes and after watching him struggle for nearly fifteen minutes, you have to step up and help him out. You unravel him from his jacket, work out the knots in the laces of his boots, peel away filthy denim that sticks to his legs like a second skin. Then you make a conscious effort not to watch as he hauls his tshirt over his head before wrestling himself between the sheets.

"Night, pal." You say, eventually, when he finally settles and you've made a mental sweep of the room to make sure there's nothing laying around he might accidentally kill himself on. "If you need me, I'll be in the living room."

But no sooner than you turn for the door, there's a hand clasped round your wrist and a thin little voice whimpering, "Don't..."

It takes all your self restraint not to heft a sigh and roll your eyes. Because you're tired now, too. And you just want this night to be over with. Want it all to be done. You've got an interview and photoshoot tomorrow with The Rolling Stone. At the rate things are going, you and Elvis are going to be needing more than the talents of a make-up artist or two.

"Please..." Elvis's eyebrows slope up. Bloodshot eyes beg you. He looks pathetic. You both do. "...I don't wanna be alone."

He inclines his head to the empty space in the king-size bed beside him. To the spot reserved for hookers and one-night-stands and the ghost of a little dove that flew away too soon.

And you set your jaw. And expel huffed air through your nose. "Fine. But just this once."

You don't bother to get undressed — you don't intend to stay that long — just kick off your trainers and shrug out of your coat, sit on top of the duvet, propped up against the headboard with pillows and pull out your phone.

04:53am.

You can do this. You can slip away as soon as Elvis falls asleep, catch an hour or two on the couch, have a nap in your car before the shoot.

You can do this.

Or at least, you could...

Until Elvis throws a possessive arm over you, and then a leg, and then promptly shoves his nose into your ribcage and begins to snore.

This time you really do sigh. Because there's no way in hell you're getting away now without waking him back up.

"Love you too, dickhead." You grumble, into the half-dark, "Fucking love you, too."

It's the cramp in your neck and the sound of Elvis spewing his guts that wakes you up. There's a huge patch of cold, wet drool all over the side of your favourite Fred Perry polo. You stink of whoever (or whatever) Elvis last fucked all over his bed, and it hurts to move. You feel more tired than you did four hours ago.

"El?" You rap on the bathroom door with the back of your hand as you lumber passed, grimacing and working the stiffness out of your bones, "You alright, lad?"

There's retching for a bit longer and then his voice, slimy sounding, bubbling, "No."

You feel a grin picking up at the corners of your mouth. Rest your forehead against the door. "Fancy a nice big greasy bacon sandwich for breakfast?"

You don't get to hear his answer through all the vomiting that ensues.

While Elvis turns his stomach inside out, you potter about in his kitchen. Make yourself a coffee and some cornflakes. Throw him together a cup of black tea and some dry toast.

You don't like Elvis's flat. He bought it with the advance from the first album, and while it's bigger and nicer than the student shithole he shared with Noel, and he's gone all out decorating it with expensive crap from Harrods and framed vinyl records on the wall, it feels emptier... lonelier. Like something that's not quite finished. Like it's got a missing part.

At first you thought that missing part was Mattie.

Nowadays you've started to question if that missing part is you.

When Elvis finally emerges from the bathroom he's all watery eyes and watery nose and hair stuck up on end like he's jammed a wet finger in a plug socket and it makes you snort.

"Had a look in the mirror yet, son?"

Elvis frowns deep and shakes his head and waves his hand to shush you. "Loud..." He whispers through a raw throat, "Too loud..."

You watch, amused, as he rifles his cupboards for paracetamol, downs two with his tea and then tentatively nibbles a tiny corner of his toast.

"Remember anything of last night?" You try make an effort to talk reasonably quietly, but at the same time you kinda want to make him suffer.

He shakes his head again, winces. "Party... ringing you... then... fuck knows. Just waking up the next minute wrapped all over you and about to puke."

"Conveniently don't remember pissing on my car, then?"

Elvis groans, "Shit... no... I don't..." He pinches the bridge of his nose and screws his eyes shut, "I'll pay for it washing, sorry man."

You raise an eyebrow, "No you won't. You'll wash it yourself. I won't let someone else do your dirty work."

Elvis sinks against the counter-top. Looks either confused or defeated, you can't tell which one. "God, I'm such a dick when I'm drunk... What else did I do?"

And you're about to answer until you catch his eye, until something in the curious way he studies you makes you become uncertain as to whether he's genuinely clueless about the entire night, or whether he's /testing/ you.

It takes you a while to formulate your answer, to find something halfway between not-quite-lying and admitting the truth.

"Nothing I can't handle." You tell him, holding steady eye contact over the rim of your coffee cup.

And through all of your worry for last night's confession, through all of your hope for alcohol-induced amnesia, you have to wonder why it hurts — kind of, a little bit — when Elvis breaks your gaze and becomes the one who looks the other way first.

#ljlsdom #ljlsdolvis #soundcheck

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maneaterwithtail · 5 years

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A lot of people were acquainted with him through his prolific participation in News & Politics, but to me Aaron was always an author, one half of the team behind Hybrid Theory. That fic was a bastion of creativity, drama, and wry humor; a ludicrous and ambitious premise, played gloriously straight. It provided me with much-needed hope and entertainment in years past. His death comes as a punch in the gut, and takes the wind of optimism out of my sails.

I never knew him well, and now I never will. Rest in peace, Aaron. The world is lessened by your absence from it.

-orm Ember

I didn't want to write this.

Not just for the obvious reasons, that nobody likes to say goodbye to a friend like this. I didn't want to make this about me, because it isn't about me. I wanted to say something about him, to tell his story, to express the tiniest part of the loss I feel in a way others could understand.

But I came to realise that it wasn't for me to tell his story. I can't. That story was for him to tell, and unfortunately, he cannot. The only story I have to tell is the story of us. So that's what I'll do.

I met Aaron Peori when we were both new in high school, about twenty-five years ago. Glace Bay High was the tenth of the eleven schools that I attended in my eleven years of schooling, and so by then I was almost as well-practiced in "meet new friends" as I was in "meet the new local pack of bullies". Walking home, I noticed one guy about my age that always walked alone, reading a book. In other words, a fellow nerd, a weirdo, an outcast. Like me. After a couple of days of spotting this lone reading fellow, he happened to be reading a book by Christopher Pike, an author I also had books by. That was, as the saying goes, an opening.

"Hey, isn't that a Christopher Pike book?" I asked this stranger, casually, as if I hadn't already known.

He looked up at me, not even showing any surprise that some weirdo had walked up and asked about the book his nose was in. "Yes," he said, peering at me owlishly from behind his glasses, then after a moment added, "He's a good author."

By the time we reached home that day, we were already good friends. From that point on, in fact, we were virtually inseparable, aided by the fact that he lived almost literally in my backyard.

From the very beginning, we were creative collaborators. At first, we were using GI Joes and a few other toys in elaborate setpiece dioramas that spanned his house's enclosed front porch, and sometimes spilled out to occupy part of the year as well. Factions, sacrifices, betrayals, and no doubt embarassing-in-retrospect dialogue were all a part of those first afternoons and weekends.

I think he first got a copy of the Marvel Super Heroes RPG from his cousin. Before I'd met him, Aaron and his cousin had both been drawing their own comics about a space-based superhero team called Sonis. Now, with a tool that you could use tell stories about superheroes, and rules to arbitrate - our new great dioramas were ones made of words, not toys. I quickly made my own "expanded universe", about a group of mercenary superheroes called Heroes For Hire.

At that point, what turned out to be a very long-lasting pattern was set. Aaron was the GM, and I was the player. Aaron created the worlds, and I lived the characters in them. He did want me to be the GM sometimes (it's more fun being the player!), but I was always uncomfortably aware how much better at it he was than me, and so I felt intimidated to pit my own lesser stories against the epics he created.

As time went on, another pattern that would be long-lasting emerged: Aaron and I's stories became vastly greater in scope. He rewrote the resolution system of the game to account for much higher power levels than the original design used (Ochre feats!), and eventually we dispensed with the rules altogether, playing completely free-form with no set rules and only the occasional dice roll. I learned to handle multiple characters at once, and bored at the success easily reached by my insanely overpowered characters, learned to find more fun in getting them in trouble instead. Aaron learned to handle the narrative challenges faced by trying to craft stories about protagonists who had literal "I win" powers, and weren't very likeable to boot.

Very little of Heroes For Hire would be something I wouldn't be embarassed to show off today, but my former internet nom de guerre "Blade" comes from the most central and overpowered character of those days.

About a year before I left Cape Breton, Aaron and I discovered two things of lasting consequence: anime, via his having a comic adaptation of the movie "Project A-ko" in his huge box of comics that I would regularly raid, and fanfiction, which I had been introduced to via USENET by another friend of mine, Mark MacIsaac. After I left, Aaron had more free time, and thus he started writing a story that combined two of his favourite things: the then-popular anime Ranma 1/2, and Star Wars.

Aaron wrote prolifically, longhand on sheaths of paper, in his inscrutable and typo-laden scrawl. My role in those first stories, for all they were credited under both our names, was just to type these up and edit them - but that wasn't a small task, to be fair. I can type 60wpm despite still pecking with two fingers instead of touch-typing, a skill that dates to those early manuscripts.

That level of collaboration, though, wasn't enough. Soon we took to role-playing games again, and I took on various Ranma characters in lengthy phone conversations where he was once again the DM. Those games formed several of the plots for Ranma: Curse of Darkness, and the entirety of the plot of Kyoto Chronicles (sadly never actually finished), along with other stories both Ranma and non that never made it to the internet. Again, he would write the scripts and I would type them up, now with more creative control and editing.

The time came when we once again lived in the same city, able to really collaborate with both of us writing scenes. All of this finally culminated in Hybrid Theory, our longer-than-Lord-of-the-Rings magnum opus, and something we were both pretty proud of despite the various flaws and that we totally botched poor Rei's character arc.

After writing something like that, we were sure, it would be easy to write something for professional publication. But unfortunately, it never came to be. Circumstances separated us again, several promising projects got stalled after a few chapters, and then the grinding workload he faced at his job hurt his ability to write consistently.

But Aaron never stopped writing fanfiction. His mind never stopped working. Most of what he wrote was "junk" in his words, and he wouldn't even show it to me, but he was still thinking up stories and worlds and his favourite thing of all: elaborate fight scenes. He once told me he could write in any series, no matter how crappy or derivative, "as long as the main characters can run up walls".

It frustrates me that I cannot prove to anyone here how brilliant Aaron was, because that brilliance was hidden behind the various flaws in his prose style. His prospensity for typos never did much improve, though he could at least spellcheck stuff he wrote on a computer rather than longhand. He never got hung up like me searching for the exact right word, and so he often just used the same words over and over. For those that read his last work, I can only explain that I took out a ton of "snaps" - "snapped her head back", "snapped his wrist forward", "the snake snapped out" and yet there are STILL that many in there. I was going to do a much more thorough editing pass when it was finished.

But that is all surface-level. Where Aaron excelled was in his vision for a setting and story. He could take the ridiculous and make it somehow sublime - indeed, he often challenged himself with making ridiculous or cliche concepts work. He could keep track of a million dancing pieces and know precisely which should enter the stage, and from where. It's not that I didn't contribute meaningfully to our collaborative efforts, but I often felt like a child with crayons colouring in the lines of a sketch by Da Vinci. Even if my colouring was good, it wasn't the masterpiece.

His players knew, though. Another habit Aaron kept for the rest of his life was GMing (though he enjoyed playing, when the opportunity was afforded to him), even if he couldn't do it as much in recent years. Aaron was a masterful GM, able to coax out strong story arcs and dramatic moments from players of any skill level, able to make NPCs that the players hated or loved or both, able to coax rambunctious player parties into dramatic clashes and events that never felt railroaded. But perhaps even more than that, he was a master of making game rules work for him instead of against him. Aaron loved role playing game rules: one of his primary hobbies and uses of his spare cash was to buy new gamebooks, even if he never planned to use them for a game. He'd devour them, expertly analyse their strengths and flaws, modify and house-rule them to his liking, and even a notoriously tricky game to GM like Exalted flowed smoothly in his hands.

His set of replacement Dragonblooded charms are still the best and most flavourful charmset ever made for them. And he always maintained that the best game system to run Star Wars with was the pulp action game Adventure! - which was the very last game I'd play with him. He was, as always on these matters, completely correct.

In another world, even with the problems we had, I'm sure Aaron could have been a published author. The problem, if problem it was, was that Aaron's prolificness stemmed from his own joy in writing and creating. Ultimately, if he was more interested in writing about a magical self-insert Sakura than he was in something "professional", then that's what he did. He took note of criticism and changed things if he got it, but ultimately the only critic whose opinion he internalised was himself. He wrote because he enjoyed writing. If somebody else enjoyed what he did, great. If nobody did, he'd write anyway.

Aaron and I were so close that my father asked me if we were gay once. We weren't - I'm straight, and he was (unknowingly at the time) asexual. But we loved each other anyway. We had the kind of easy camraderie and understanding where we could nostalge and talk for hours upon hours, week upon week, and never get bored even when we didn't have really anything to talk about. We were never bored of each other's company. From that very first day we met, we understood each other in ways that nobody else ever did, or ever would. I never pictured my life without Aaron in it. I was going to be a writer, I knew at 15 years old, with Aaron. I was going to move back to Canada someday - and live near Aaron.

There is a hole, and it cannot be filled. It hurts, and it will always hurt. And yet I am greater for having it. It is unthinkable to wish that I didn't have it. My life without Aaron is unthinkable. I'll have to think of it, maybe another day, but not yet.

Aaron's last few years were difficult in some ways. He stuck in a predatory, horrible job that left him perpetually sick and exhausted, the only thing in the 25 years I knew him that actually forced him to stop writing and GMing for any length of time. He was too proud to take help, too tired to look for an alternative. He nearly died of a perforated ulcer a few years ago, and that added "chronic pain" to his ailments, and being him, he would only take painkillers when it became unbearable. It was unsustainable, we knew it, but he was always reaching for that promotion that would finally bring the shorter hours he had been asking for. In the meantime, he'd always say "Don't worry about me, I'm fine." I wish he had been right.

And yet.

In those same years, Aaron discovered himself. He discovered that he wasn't the strange not-wanting-sex freak he had grown up thinking he was, that there were many people like him out there. He got in touch with the emotions he had suppressed within himself due to a traumatic childhood experience, and while he sometimes had difficulty handling his newfound sadness (he was striken by grief like I'd never seen over the death of his grandfather) or anger (political topics were verboten in our conversations over the last few years), I believe that for all the pain and overwork and lack of creative output he was still in some ways never happier than he was these last few years.

He told me once that he wanted to find a partner of either gender, who didn't need or didn't want sex, but could be with him and hold him close when he needed it. I cried, and told him I knew he could find someone once he was out of that job. He deserved it. He deserved that happiness too.

This forum (although not solely) had a lot to do with him discovering himself, and that is why I felt I had to post about him here. You meant more to him than you know, and to some of you, though I don't know your names, I owe a debt I can never repay. Whoever you are, thank you so much. You helped him in a way I couldn't. The joy and hope of his last years came from the help you gave him.

And that's the end of the story of us. Aaron was exhausted, pushing himself beyond what he ever should have - now, at least, he can rest. Aaron was in pain, but now the pain is gone. There was nothing good or right or kind or acceptable about it, but it can't be changed, it can't be helped.

Goodbye, Aaron. I love you. Thank you for writing stories with me.

-Chris Mcneil addressing sufficient velocity forums

#rip #fandom #author of hybrid theory #major custom exalted charm wonker #writer #internet opinion guy

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