Everyday is a struggle with this guy

~ Angry cuddles with Patrick Verona ~

Summary: Pat’s mad at you. But he also wants his cuddles. What occurs when his need overcomes his anger is too cute and it leads to the both of you melting into the mattress together. (SFW)

Something my darling @loveletterstoledger​ said to me today sparked this little ficlet. This idea was entirely her own and I wanted to write something about it so please send her some love directly if you enjoy this; she deserves it!💜💗🌸💙 (I hope you enjoy this, my love!!!! I haven’t written for Pat for a while so I might be a bit rusty!)💛🥰💕

TW; (minor) argument between Y/N and Pat, miscommunication (this is the basis of the argument), tension (momentary). If I’ve missed anything then please let me know!

Word count: 1, 038.

“Pat, would you just listen to m - “ Your voice rises slightly with frustration and with some kind of urgency for Pat to do as you ask him to, which is simply to listen because he’s labouring under a misunderstanding and you want to correct it, but his dark brown eyes seem to look through you. 

Pat’s beyond the point of listening to you and so angry is he that he’s unable to be his best self for you as he scoffs and leaves the room, his dark curls flying about his face like the strands are electrical currents, so palpable are his emotions in this moment. He storms from the room and his steel toe caps thunder through the house until finally does your bedroom door slam shut so hard that the walls in the living room, where you stand, shake. 

You sigh in defeat, a thick lump of unshed tears in your throat and a prickly heat behind your eyes and nostrils spreads. You wrinkle your nose - you won’t cry. You’re not going to follow him, so knowing are you that when Pat removes himself from a situation, it’s because he’s keeping venom from leaving his tongue; what’s said is said. Even in the worst of moods, Pat wouldn’t want to do you unnecessary harm, and so he silences himself before there’s even a risk of that happening.

You grab your phone as you sit on the sofa and give yourself a small break from the monotony of your daily routine. If you know Pat as well as you’re sure that you do, then he’ll be back within twenty minutes. With a small smile and a lot of anxiety, you force yourself to focus on mindlessly scrolling your socials (the irony doesn’t escape you). 

Just as you get into the rhythm of scrolling without thought and refreshing your feeds every few seconds, cycling are you through the apps on your phone, Pat comes storming into the room and grabs your hand, pulling you up to standing. He seems to be a live wire, his skin almost crawling with energy. His dark curls fly around him as his hand tightly grips yours and without looking back does he walk with you to the bedroom. 

Pat ignores all of your questions and all of your protests; half way to the room do you cease this and simply allow Pat to do as he will; so stubborn is he that he will always get his way. Truthfully would you allow nothing less than this, for there is nothing he could ask which you could ever refuse and the same is equally true in the reverse. You live for each other.

Finally do the both of you reach the bedroom and Pat uses his spare hand to slam the door shut behind you; you are barely in the room for there is a strong gust of wind against your head and you step closer into Pat, not wanting to get your clothes stuck in the door. 

“Pat, what - “ One last attempt to see what Pat was after, but before you could finish your sentence, he grunted and threw himself down on the bed, the look in his eyes making his needs obvious.

You tried to not laugh but you couldn’t help it. “Ohhh ~ ,” You exhaled and made a sound of knowing at the same time. “You want your angry cuddles.” You bit down on your lip to prevent from laughing too much but you had always found it funny when Pat got angry. He just stomped around, made some noise and then demanded for cuddles like he was a belligerent cat. He didn’t like being angry and so he usually calmed down pretty quickly. You came forward and Pat lunged forward and wrapped his arms around you, tugging you down with him onto the bed.

Pat grunts angrily and crushes you to his chest, his breaths deep and long as he forces himself to calm down, as he gets himself reacquainted with what it means to hold you in his arms and to be safe in what the both of you share. He presses a tender yet somehow aggressive kiss to your forehead and rests his chin, the angles of which are sharp, against the crown of your head, and takes another deep breath before he makes another angry noise and rolls so that you’re pressed against the mattress and Pat is hovered over you.

You let him tug you this way and that, used are you to Pat’s angry cuddles. As far as healthy ways of dealing with anger goes, Pat has one of the healthier methods you’ve ever seen. He always lets himself vent his emotions and always will he apologise for negative ones as and when he expresses them to you, even and especially when they’re not actually directed at you. Normally are the both of you efficient at communicating with one another but for some reason today did you just bump heads and so was nothing solved. 

He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours, the fire in his eyes slowly beginning to simmer into a gentle flame. For some reason is there a tugging in your gut and and you begin to speak, your voice just above a whisper as you tell Pat what you had been trying to say before the tension had deafened Pat’s ears to your words only moments ago. He listens to you, inclining his head as he presses kisses to your cheeks, lips, the pulse point on your neck. He hums and makes noises of sympathy and of compassion, so large is his heart, and you know that all is well between you again when his hands slide up, up your body and grip your face. His fingers splay behind your ears and he kisses you so soundly that you quite forget what you were just about to say, and perhaps that had been Pat’s plan all along.

He lives in the moment and dwells not on the past, for it is gone and all he has is right now with you. You’re everything to him, just as he is everything to you.

Patrick Verona  @itsthejoker @royaleclownx   @arianatheangelworld   @scaredclowncat​    @hotpacino  @call-me-harley-quinn @mountainjiwish  @bao-styles

Thoughts on the ship Rosalie/Bella?

While it’s a nice thought, sadly, I don’t think either Rosalie or Bella are what the other would ever seek in a partner.

Indeed, I think the other would be too close of a reminder to what they see in the worst of themselves. So, even in better circumstances, I don’t think they’d choose each other.

Let’s break that down.

What is Rosalie Looking For?

Rosalie’s past is one filled with brutal trauma, betrayal, and heartbreak. She has been violated by men in the worst of ways, betrayed by the man she thought would be her husband, and then has the surreal experience of being turned into something that, while alive, is not human.

She romanticizes the human life she could have had, clinging to it, never acknowledging that circumstances were such that she never would have had it.

Rosalie never was going to get that simple future of being a humble, good, simple man’s wife with beautiful children and a comfortable life. She was raised in society, uncommonly beautiful and charming, and was set to marry the wealthiest man she could. It might not have been Royce, she could have married a good man, but she would have married into this wealthy world and not ended up with someone like Emmett.

I think this is very telling.

For very understandable reasons, Rosalie has never confronted nor truly gotten over her trauma. Oh, she murdered her rapists and murderers, and put their deaths behind her, she married Emmett and has a (fairly) good relationship with him, but she hasn’t taken her full final steps to recovery.

I think this in part shows in her ending up with a guy like Emmett.

Emmett’s not bad, don’t get me wrong, but it’s very telling in what he loves of Rosalie and that Rosalie loves him for it.

He worships her beauty above all other things and is described as a very simple but pleasant and laidback guy. I think Rosalie is at the point where she wants to be worshipped, especially for the quality that was most valued in her human life, her beauty.

She wants to be with someone safe, someone who loves her, and that someone is definitely Emmett.

I think in the short run this works out very well for the pair of them and perhaps even in the long run. I think both could have chosen a better partner.

Rosalie is complicated, she’s not the shallow vain bitch Edward complains she is nor is she what Emmett seems to see her as. Emmett doesn’t really get his wife, or defend her all that much, he’s in love with her beautiful cheerleader persona. Rosalie, similarly, is in love with this man whose greatest attribute is his love of her. I’m sure there are moments she finds Emmett rather boorish and slow on the uptake.

What Do I Think Rosalie Needs?

To be honest, of all the characters where I raise my eyebrow at Meyer putting them with someone of the opposite gender, Rosalie’s one of the ones where they raise the highest.

Even Carlisle, when Rosalie drags in this man’s bleeding carcass, goes, “Oh, is this your cousin?” And has a “Him?!” moment when Rosalie explains this is her new husband.

I always would have expected, especially after her experiences, for Rosalie to be with a woman. That said, I do think her society’s prejudices and expectations would be a huge barrier for her and she’d have to do a lot of character growth before this would ever be possible. And I mean a lot of character growth, as in, Rosalie hasn’t reached this point even post Twilight saga.

Right, regardless of gender, I think Rosalie needs a partner who a) understands her b) does not value her looks c) accepts the good and the bad parts of her.

Like all of us, Rosalie is flawed. She’s a very impressive, down right intimidating, woman who has an iron clad will and gets what she wants. She has a deep love for her family and a great capacity for compassion. However, there are times when she’s the sixteen-year-old girl who has very much not escaped her society’s mindset. She fully advocates Bella Swan’s murder so the family won’t have to move, not realizing until Carlisle points it out that this is a heinous thing to do. Rosalie says vicious, racist, things to Jake likely never realizing exactly what it is she’s saying. She’s stubborn, proud, and as Edward put it a bit pig-headed.

Emmett tends to just go “Yeah, she’s a bitch, but she’s my bitch”. Which... great, thanks Emmett, that’s very helpful.

Bella Swan is Not That Person

Bella per the start of the series is a seventeen-year-old girl with cripplingly low self-esteem, huge parental issues, and a dangerous inclination towards depression.

Bella shows serious interest in women sexually (her relationship with Alice has some serious homoerotic undertones) but she’s also very intimidated by them. Rosalie, especially, makes Bella evaluate and feel worse about herself as she knows she will never be as beautiful as this teenage blonde goddess.

In other words, this Bella is not in a position to be the kind of person Rosalie needs. She’s too caught up in figuring out who she herself is, cares very much about Rosalie’s appearance and using it to compare against her own, and isn’t stable enough to be what Rosalie needs.

And by the end of canon... Well... Bella’s left the planet and will soon join Esme in being a hauntingly strange person entirely divorced from reality.

What if we’re in a slightly AU world?

Well, we’re banking on a lot of character development for Bella that I don’t believe can happen with Edward around. Either Bella shows interest in Edward or, well, he eats her. (No, seriously, this is canon, both Alice and Edward confirm as much.) 

And if the family packs up and leaves during New Moon and never comes back... Well, of all the people Bella might end up with after that, I think Rosalie might just be the least likely (not to mention Rosalie would not be down for hanging around Edward’s stupid human girlfriend).

What is Bella Looking For?

Bella’s looking for validation of her very self. She wants to be loved, more than that, she wants to be worth something.

Bella has such a low opinion of herself that, at this point in her life, she needs this feeling to come from elsewhere. She finds this in both Edward and Jacob.

And it doesn’t matter how scary they are (and both are, indeed, very scary towards her), it doesn’t matter what it is they value, just that they both seem to want her even though she’s a foolish, clumsy, pale, ugly, human, nobody, loser. 

That’s all Bella wants.

Edward’s a perfect storm in that he’s inhumanly perfect, beautiful beyond all comprehension, and completely obsessed with her. In Edward’s eyes, Bella is not just perfect, she’s fascinating.

And then, of course, she’s not and it utterly destroys her. 

Basically, Bella’s is a very sad life.

What Does Bella Need?

Bella needs time to grow up and find out who she is and how to value that.

Bella is your very typical teenage girl. She’s precocious, has a lot of issues growing up with her mom, but she has a lot of issues many teenage girls do have.

I think, before Bella can find a truly good partner, she needs to learn how to value herself.

This will be painful and take a lot of time. In New Moon, I think Jake actually sets her back as she uses him to find value in herself for her (essentially replacing Edward).

Only after Bella discovers who she is, reaffirms why she is important and worthy of love, can she find someone.

What does that person look like?

Well, it sure as fuck isn’t Vampire Patrick Bateman, otherwise known as Edward Cullen. Nor is it Jake Black who sexually assaults her, tells her to kiss him or he’ll kill himself, then tells her that her dying is pointless as it means he and Edward fought over nothing. 

It also isn’t Alice, who treats Bella a lot like she would a life-sized Barbie Doll rather than a friend and a human being.

I’m not sure who it is, to be honest.

Someone who recognizes who Bella is, certainly, the good and the bad. Someone who is able to... reconcile her with the world she truly lives in. Maybe, circumstances changing around a bit, it’s Carlisle Cullen? (Though that would certainly be a dumpster fire of divorce and despair with Edward and Esme) Maybe it’s Jasper (also a dumpster fire of divorce and despair with Edward and Alice)? 

I really have no idea here. Unlike Rosalie, I can’t even tell you what this person would need to be like.

What I do know is...

Rosalie is Not That Person

Just as Bella views Rosalie as a threat, as something to measure herself against and feel unworthy of in every way, Rosalie does the same.

Bella is a pretty human woman who captures Edward’s attention in a way she never can. Rosalie, at the time we start canon, for all her accomplishments and all she’s done is still insecure enough that she needs to be the prettiest woman in the room. 

Just as Bella’s not secure enough to be what Rosalie needs, Rosalie is not secure enough to be what Bella needs.

Rosalie also doesn’t see Bella for what she is. Rosalie sees, at first, a normal boring human teenager and dismisses her. She falls into the typical Cullen trap (for all but Carlisle) that they forget humans are people too. Later, Bella discounts Rosalie’s very earnest advice and Rosalie never forgives her for it. This is understandable, Rosalie lays her soul bare, but she forgets Bella’s a teenage girl and more can’t see what Bella herself is battling with.

Bella thinks being human is worthless because Bella thinks being Bella is worthless. Children and a human future mean nothing to her.

It would take a lot, A LOT, of character development for Rosalie to be someone that Bella needs in this situation and even then... Well, they’d have to deal with the horrifying shit show that is Edward. Because if Edward/Bella isn’t happening...

It’s lunch time.

TL;DR

I’d say pin your hopes on Alice/Bella, except that one’s not happening either for all that they do have their very homoerotic friendship.

The Shouldn't Waste Your Pretty Face Playlist

The long anticipated (cough, cough - or the thing I promised myself I would make before posting but then got impatient??) playlist to Shouldn't Waste Your Pretty Face! Enjoy and if you're interested, below the cut are my reasons for putting each song into the playlist and what I think each represents in the story.

Head Above Water by Avril Lavigne – “My life is what I’m fighting for”

When this story starts, Nolan is overwhelmed and scared and desperate to make his hockey dream a reality. All of his energy is focused on making sure he does everything right because his life in hockey depends on it.

Gasoline by Halsey – “Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me”

This song was my anthem while writing this story. There were so many lines in this song that I debated making the title but given the themes of this story I felt like ‘shouldn’t waste your pretty face’ was the perfect epitome of Nolan’s struggle. The world hates it when we don’t fit into their boxes.

LOST BOY by Troye Sivan – “I say I want to settle down, build your hopes up like a tower”

This is Isaac’s song. Or it’s the song of Isaac and Nolan and the constant push Nolan feels to surrender to this sweet boy with kind eyes and a gentle smile and the equally constant pull he feels of knowing that their dreams of the future don’t line up and he needs to get out now.

Friends Don’t by Maddie & Tae – “They don’t hear each other’s names and forget to concentrate”

I struggled somewhat to find the best place for this song within the chronology of this playlist because honestly this song is just the entire beginning of TK and Nolan’s relationship. This almost immediate connection that always edged a little too close to ‘not just friends.’ And the absolute roller coaster of emotions it brings for Nolan as his feelings for TK grow and bubble up under his skin.

Good as You by Kane Brown – “You’re more than just the surface, you got the heart of gold”

Oh, the fight. Stories just aren’t the same without at least a little bit of drama. Losing TK as a consistent touchstone in his rookie season quickly morphed into unbearable for Nolan. Recognizing that a lot of his own bullshit hurt someone who has been nothing but an absolute gentleman to him was just the bridge Nolan needed to cross to begin to find out who he really is. This fight is the first turning point into Nolan’s transition to becoming who he’s really meant to be.

I Like Me Better by Lauv – “I knew from the first time; I’d stay for a long time”

Nolan’s friendship with Nico is a really important part of this story. Nico is the first person who truly gives Nolan permission to be himself, to explore all his angles in the comfort of a safe space.

Numb by Linkin Park – “All I want to do is be more like me and be less like you”

Nolan’s mom played a much larger role ‘on-screen’ in the first iteration of this story. In the final draft she is the constant, omnipresent ‘villain’ but doesn’t get as much airtime. However, this song was so, so important to keep in the playlist. This probably reveals that I’m someone who came of age in the early-aughts, but this song was my angsty anthem as a teen. The constant fight of wanting to be different than what your family expects of you. So, chronologically, I’ve put it in roughly where we ‘see’ his mom for the first time, but it’s an applicable song throughout the story.

Sucker by Jonas Brothers – “You’re the medicine and the pain, the tattoo inside my brain”

The theme song of Nolan’s second heat. The moment he realizes that he can clock TK’s scent in a crowded bar, the moment he lets TK cut his strings and give him exactly what he needs. That moment, after, when he’s tangled in the sheets with TK and knows that if he could, if he wasn’t broken, he’d want this every moment of his life.

Silver Lining by Mt. Joy – “Wear your silver lining, wear it close to your skin”

Is this really a Nolan Patrick story without a Mt. Joy song in its playlist? No. No, it’s not. So here is Pretty Face’s shameless inclusion of a Mt. Joy song in its playlist. It also happens to be my favorite Mt. Joy song and a perfect fit for the metaphor that clothes play in this story.

homecoming queen? by Kelsea Ballerini – “But what if I told you the world wouldn’t end if you started showing what’s under your skin”

I really debated if this song had a place in this playlist or the playlist for TK’s story. In the end I think it fits both and so this is my secret, easter egg that hints at a bit of what TK’s story is going to be about. Think – first verse is Travis, second verse in Nolan, and the chorus sums up the entire message of both of their stories.

Adore You by Harry Styles – “Honey, I’d walk through fire for you just let me adore you”

THIS IS TK’S SONG AND YOU CANNOT CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE. TK one hundred percent believes that one of the most important things he’ll ever do in this life is adore Nolan and make sure he knows how amazing he is. In terms of actual story moments, I always think about this song during the scenes with the courting presents.

HEAVEN by Troye Sivan, Betty Who – “So if I’m losing a piece of me maybe I don’t want heaven”

Can you tell I really like Troye Sivan? I really like Troye Sivan. I always really connected with the lyrics in this song. In particular, this song makes me think of the scene right at the end of Nolan’s last heat of the first season and they’re in the Brooklyn hotel room and TK grabs the end of Nolan’s braid, tugs it, and tells him that it looks good.

Voices in My Head by Ashley Tisdale – “All the voices in my head always try to break me”

As the summer after Nolan’s rookie season starts to bleed into late July you begin to see Nolan’s shift towards owning his thoughts, feelings, and emotions. He’s beginning to recognize that the fucked up voices in his head are just the expectations society put on him and that they don’t necessarily reflect his own thoughts and desires.

Scars to Your Beautiful by Alessia Cara – “And you don’t have to change a thing, the world could change its heart”

This is my Maddie Patrick song. Even though many characters throughout this story remind Nolan that there isn’t anything wrong with his true self, Maddie is such a critical person in this regard. She grew up in the same household as Nolan and knows the bullshit he received. She’s the one that constantly reminds him of the patriarchy and bodily autonomy and the importance of owning yourself. And that it’s the world that needs to change, not him.

Brave by Sara Bareilles – “Maybe there’s a way out of the cage where you live”

This song is essentially representing Nolan’s journey to getting his tubes tied, after finally allowing himself to admit out loud what he’s always known – his body doesn’t fit him perfect and it’s time for him to change that.

Worship You by Kane Brown – “Every time I see you smile it’s like I’ve seen the light”

Would it be the soundtrack to TK’s love confession if it wasn’t country music? Or Kane Brown? I feel like TK would like Kane Brown. I feel like TK just wants to spend his whole life worshipping Nolan and reminding him of the miracle he’s giving TK by loving him back.

Soul Meets Body by Death Cab for Cutie – “I want to live where soul meets body”

And here we are at the end of Nolan’s journey where he has two tiny scars on his hipbones that remind him that the outside of his body finally fits the inside. That his soul and his body are finally one and the same.

Is Eddie Grant the true inventor of Soca?

by Jo-Ann Greene

 Eddy Grant stands among an elite group of artists as one who has not just merely moved successfully across the musical spectrum, but has actually been at the forefront of genres and even created one of his own. From pop star to reggae radical, musical entrepreneur to the inventor of ringbang, the artist has cut a swath through the world of music and made it his own.

Born in Plaisance, Guyana, on March 5, 1948, the young Edmond Grant grew up on the sound of his homeland, tan singing, an Indo-Caribbean vocal style whose roots lay in South Asia and are the backbone of modern chutney. Then in 1960, the Grant family emigrated to England, taking up residence in the working-class Stoke Newington area of London. The young teen's musical horizons swiftly expanded, embracing the R&B, blues, and rock that percolated across his new island home.

In 1965, Grant formed his first band, the Equals, and long before the days of 2-Tone, the group was unique in being the first of Britain's multi-racial bands to receive any recognition. The West Indian contingent comprised Jamaican-born singer Lincoln Gordon, with his twin brother Derv and Grant both on guitar, while the rhythm section of bassist Patrick Lloyd and drummer John Hall were native-born white Englishmen. Like most of the teenaged bands roaming the capital at the time, the Equals cut their teeth on the club and pub circuit and finally inked a label deal with President Records in early 1967. Their debut single, "I Won't Be There," didn't crack the charts but did receive major radio support. This, alongside an expanding fan base wowed by their live shows, pushed their first album, Unequaled Equals, into the U.K. Top Ten. At the request of his label, Grant had also been working with the Pyramids, the British group who had backed Prince Buster on his recent U.K. tour. Besides composing songs for the band (and one for Buster himself, the rude classic "Rough Rider"), Grant also produced several tracks, including the band's debut single and sole hit, "Train to Rainbow City." In 1968, the Equals scored their own hit with "I Get So Excited," the group's debut into the Top 50. Although their follow-up album, Equals Explosion, proved less successful than its predecessor, as did the next single, the quintet's career was indeed about to explode. "Hold Me Closer" may have disappointed in the U.K., where it stalled at a lowly number 50, but in Germany, the single was flipped over and "Baby Come Back" released as the A-side. It swiftly soared to the top of the German charts, a feat repeated across Europe. Later that spring, a reissued British single finally received its just due and reached number one. Even the U.S. took notice, sending the single into the lower reaches of the Top 40. Sadly, this turned out to be a flash in the pan. The Equals' follow-up single, "Laurel and Hardy" died at number 35; its successor did even worse, while their new album, Sensational Equals, didn't even make the charts. New hope arrived when "Viva Bobby Joe" shot into the Top Ten in the summer of 1969, but its follow-up, "Rub a Dub Dub," just scraped into the Top 35. Understandable, considering the Equals' roller coaster of ups and downs, Grant now turned his attention elsewhere.

In 1970, he started up his own specialty record label, Torpedo, concentrating on British reggae artists. He also utilized the label as a home for a brief solo career under the alias Little Grant, releasing the single "Let's Do It Together." But the artist hadn't given up on the Equals yet, and good thing too. Later that year, their new 45, "Black Skinned Blue Eyed Boys," slammed the group back into the Top Ten. And then, the unimaginable happened. On New Year's day in 1971, Grant, all of 23 years old, suffered a heart attack and a collapsed lung. If lifestyle played a part, it wasn't because he drank, took drugs, smoked, or ate meat; it was due to Grant's only vice -- a hectic schedule. He quit the group at this point and the Equals soldiered on into the shadows without him. He sold Torpedo as well and with the proceeds opened up his own recording studio, The Coach House, in 1972. Grant continued to produce other artists and release their records through his newly launched Ice label, but his own musical talents were seemingly left behind. It wasn't until 1977 when Grant finally released a record of his own, the Message Man album. It was three years in the making and a stunning about-face from his previous pop persona, even if "Black Skinned Blue Eyed Boys" had suggested a change was imminent. Tracks like "Cockney Black," "Race Hate," and "Curfew" were politicized dark masterpieces laced with aggression and anger.

But the album also included some lighter moments, including "Hello Africa," which featured a sound that the media hadn't even invented a word for yet. Grant dubbed it "kaisoul," an amalgamation of kaiso (the traditional word for calypso) and soul. Caribbean legend Lord Shorty, the acknowledged inventor of this new crossover hybrid, labeled it solka. Neither term stuck, however, once the Trinidad and Tobago press came up with their own label: soca. But regardless of what it was called, the style was just one of many hybrids that Grant was entertaining.

Message Man may have proved a commercial failure, but that didn't dim the artist's vision for one second.

Two more years passed while Grant wrestled with its follow-up in the studio, composing, producing, and performing virtually the entire album himself. The end result was 1979's Walking on Sunshine, one of the greatest albums of the decade. While the B-side featured a clutch of seminal musical hybrids, the centerpiece of the album's A-side was "Living on the Frontline," a dancefloor classic that blended tough lyrics with an electronic sheen, a sense of optimism, and a funk-fired sound. Released as a single, the song roared up the British chart, while becoming a cult hit in U.K. clubs. Inexplicably, the album itself didn't chart at all, nor did its follow-up, 1980's Love in Exile. However, in the next year, Grant finally cracked the market wide open with Can't Get Enough, which finally breached the Top 40. His singles' success had continued uninterrupted across "Do You Feel My Love," "Can't Get Enough of You," and "I Love You, Yes I Love You." A phenomenal live album, Live at Notting Hill, was recorded in August 1981 during London's Notting Hill Carnival. The following year's Killer on the Rampage slew its way into both the British and American charts, where it landed at number ten. The album spun off "I Don't Wanna Dance," which topped the chart in the U.K., while the exhilarating "Electric Avenue," from his next album, Going for Broke, landed at number two on both sides of the Atlantic.

Nothing else would equal these dizzying heights. Three more singles followed by the end of 1984, but none managed to break into the Top 40. In the U.S., only one, "Romancing the Stone," actually made the chart, charming its way into a respectable berth just outside the Top 25. That was his final showing in the U.S. On both sides of the Atlantic, 1987's Born Tuff and the following year's File Under Rock were passed over by the record-buying public. However, the British gave the artist one last Top Ten hit in 1988 with "Gimme Hope Jo'anna," a highlight of his 1990 Barefoot Soldier album. Unfortunately, its 1992 follow-up, Painting of the Soul, went the way of its last few predecessors. 

By then, the artist had long ago left the U.K., having emigrated to Barbados a decade earlier. Even as his own career had taken off back in England, Grant was spending much of his time mentoring a new generation of soca talent. He opened a new studio, Blue Wave, and lavished most of his attention on it, which explains the gap in his output between 1984 and 1987. By the time "Jo'anna" had fallen off the chart, Grant was well on the way to creating his own mini-empire. Besides giving new stars-to-be a helping hand, Grant also moved into music publishing, specializing in calypso's legends. Over the years, Ice has thrilled the world by making the back catalog of multitudes of stars available: Lord Kitchener, Roaring Lion, and Mighty Sparrow, to name a few. And almost uniquely among Caribbean artists, Grant has maintained control over his own music, and Ice, of course, has kept it available. Across Grant's solo career, the artist has continued to experiment with different styles in ever-changing combinations. Pop, funk, new wave, reggae, Caribbean, African, and even country have all been melded into his sound. 1992's Painting of the Soul was heavy with island influences, while the next year's Soca Baptism is a collection of covers, from hits to obscurities, all dosed with a modern sound.

By this time, Grant was hard at work in the evolution of yet another hybrid style: ringbang. Many of the genre's elements are easily found in the artist's earlier recordings, from African rhythms to military tattoos, alongside soca itself and dancehall rhythms, many of the latter influenced by Grant's own previous work. The new style debuted in 1994 at the Barbados Crop Over festival. Since then, the style has continued to intrigue, but has yet to create the international success that it's always threatened. Much of this can be laid at Grant's own door, through a simmering dispute with other artists and the legal ramifications of the genre's trademark. A vociferous supporter of artists' rights, Grant first ran into trouble in 1996 when he demanded his label's artists receive adequate copyright fees from Trinidad and Tobabgo's Carnival. A heroic stance that infuriated the festival's organizers, this was quickly overshadowed by the public outcry over soca itself. As far as T&T was concerned, the inventor of soca was island native Lord Shorty, who announced its birth in 1978 with the Soca Explosion album. However, Grant insists otherwise, crediting his own "Black Skinned Blue Eyed Boys" as the first-ever soca record. Needless to say, his public proclamations of this fact continue to infuriate T&T and other Shorty supporters. But politics aside, the greater factor may be in ringbang's trademark. Once Grant filed it, the word could no longer be used by other artists without express permission. A perusal of any soca, calypso, or chutney hits collection shows the importance of the use of the genre term to the actual song, and just how many titles feature the term. By preventing artists from using the word ringbang, few outside the Ice stable were willing to explore the genre.

Even so, Grant managed to organize the Ringbang Celebration 2000 as part of T&T's millennium festivities. The event, which went off without a hitch, created further ill will due to its price tag, a whopping 41 million (6.5 million dollars in U.S. currency). The artist himself performed two songs at the event.

In the new year, he recorded a new version of one of them, "East Dry River," while in Jamaica, appropriately enough in a ska style. The previous year, the artist released the Hearts & Diamonds album, with Reparation following in 2006. Grant continues to make an impact on both sides of the studio, with his music always an intriguing concoction of sound and his studio work equally innovative. Ice itself is equally instrumental in the music world, both in its preservation of past legacies and its attention to new artists.

via island mix backchat http://www.islandmix.com/backchat/threads/is-eddie-grant-the-true-creator-inventor-of-soca.247725/

Absence of Good - 6

Chapter 6: Take Your Troubles and Double Them

Okay so it’s a long time coming but here it is! I took so long writing this because honestly I was just super burned out and dreading writing it. So a part of this was written in small increments, but then today I actually wanted to write, so I sat down and -imagine this- just wrote it. Now I know I just did a fic where characters get injured but well... If two characters are two halves of a whole, the perfect yin and yang to each other, when the one gets hurt should not the other also get hurt? ...and I needed it for plot reasons because we’re finally to the point in this story where I’m storyboarding. Anyway, I hope it’s up to snuff since I actually edited this time.

Taglist: @dreamwritesimagines @rhabakoli

AoG Taglist: @pancakefancake @prettyboyspenerrr @youreasnack @alioop3818

Wordcount: 

Warnings: Extremely dark themes. Violence against children. Death and murder. Death of children. Torture. 

“Perhaps the greatest faculty our minds possess is the ability to cope with pain.”

-Patrick Rothfuss

           You were sitting in the bullpen, working on not working. Technically you were supposed to be writing up reports, but it was early April and everybody had spring fever. There wasn’t a single member of the BAU who was actually doing what they were supposed to except maybe Hotch.

“Hey, Garcia, I’ve got a fun fact for you,” you said.

“Am I going to like it or is it about serial killers?”

“You’re going to like it.”

“Then fire away!” Garcia beamed at you.

“Did you know that the average human needs at least 8 hugs a day to maintain oxytocin levels?”

Garcia looked like the cat that ate the canary. “So what you’re saying is…it’s actually beneficial for me to declare group hug time!”

Immediately she latched onto you with an enthusiasm that could only be achieved by one Penelope Garcia, and with a glare that dared the rest of the team not to come join in.

Some people might be surprised that Spencer was the first to join, but the people who knew him knew better. While the Doctor might seem stiff and awkward from afar, once he got comfortable with people he could be quite warm and affectionate. It just might take a few months or…years. Either way Spencer had no reservations about snuggling into you, and his head was a surprisingly good fit on your shoulder.

It didn’t take the rest of the team long to join in, cocooning you in an envelope of human warmth.

“Does this count as my eight hugs for the day since there’s like, a dozen people hugging me right now?”

“There are exactly 6 people hugging your right now and no,” Spencer said. “It has to be chest to chest contact to count as a full hug.”

“So this counts as no hugs?” You asked, disappointed.

“Don’t worry sugar plum, I’d be more than happy to provide you with an unlimited supply. Whenever you need a hug you just let me know,” Garcia said, patting you on the head as the group hug disbanded.

Not a moment too soon either as Hotch walked in to announce a new case. Nothing like murder to raise your oxytocin levels.

 Hotch made the briefing short and sweet, as he always did. There was a series of child abductions happening in Pennsylvania, which meant time was of the essence now more than ever.

“This unsub is escalating at a rate we couldn’t have possibly foreseen. He’s quickly getting desperate and has already shown himself to be deeply unpredictable. Amongst his victims is now 22-year-old Alicia, a nanny to one of the children he abducted. This unsub will go through anything or anyone to achieve his goal, and the murder of Alicia Bennet shows no signs of remorse anywhere in the body positioning or methodology. Wheels up in 10.”

You could feel the panic hit you like a shot of whiskey, burning in the pit of your stomach. You tried to control it though. Panic always came with this job, but it was harder with unsubs like this. Fast moving and unpredictable and ruthless. Something in you knew before you ever stepped foot on the jet that this one would haunt your nightmares.

Spence noticed your distress immediately, finding it in the jittery way you grabbed your go-bag and the shaking hands that made you a cup of tea on the plane before you sat down by yourself to think while the rest of the team brainstormed. After giving his contributions, he was quick to join you.

“It’s eating you alive, isn’t it?” He asked.

You looked up at those soft brown eyes and knew there was no use lying to him. He always knew exactly what you were feeling. You communicated in a language you didn’t even know, in the quirk of his mouth and the skim of his fingertips and the curve of your spine and the whispers of your breathing. A tacet tryst all your own.

“I don’t like time crunches.”

He accepts that as an answer and an end to the conversation. Except there is never an end to your conversations anymore. The silence just stretches into a requiem of every word between the two of you, a living, breathing thing still. Which means there is nothing awkward about you interrupting it, because the conversation is still going.

“Do you ever wish you’d just…taken a gap year? Or several gap years? You certainly had the time.” You laugh a little bit.

Spencer’s answer is fast enough that you know already what he will say.

“I thought about it once. After everything with my Mom…I almost did.”

“So what stopped you?”

“Well I brought up the idea to my Mom and her reaction was basically that I would give up what I loved over her dead body.” Spence huffed a smile, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. “What about you? You had the time to take a gap year too. Why not?”

You leaned back against the smooth leather of the jet seat behind you.

“I thought about it. When I was 16 I had this brief ambition to take a gap year to be an occupational therapists assistant.”

“That’s not even a real gap year!” Spencer elbowed you teasingly before going serious again. “So why didn’t you?”

“Well to say my parents thought it was the worst idea I’d ever had would be an understatement. I pitched them the whole scheme, you know? I would go and get my associates degree and then I could use that to get the job and train for a year then help pay my way through college while I was getting my psychology degree. They said that if I stopped for a year though I would never go back to school and get my bachelor’s and then it would all be a waste. So, here I am.”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, thoughtful as he always was. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to go after your dreams.”

“It’s okay. I’m happy to be here, so it all turned out for the best.”

Hesitantly, Spencer’s hand came to rest over yours on the armrest. “I’m happy you’re here too.”

You turned your face away from him, but you were unable to stop your eyes flicking back to him, your breath coming too fast for a different reason now. There were certain lines that coworkers just didn’t cross, and you and Spencer…you had been skirting those lines for quite a while. This was just a new way to push the limits.

 You should have known right away that it would be a bad idea to try to go undercover. There was a reason you didn’t go undercover in your line of work, the reason being it was stupid. But the best way to catch this guy might just be to masquerade as a nanny for a child that you were almost certain he would target. What made you so certain? Well, she was his after all.

Eventually, Garcia had pieced together enough clues to determine that your killer was a Mr. Derek Mayner and that he had a young daughter who had been adopted by an upper middle-class family. Her mother had hid her existence from him, but you could only assume he had found out since the girl’s mother had been killed when she was only two in a way that fit your killer’s style all too well. Unfortunately for Mayner but fortunately for Gina, his daughter, he was put in prison shortly after that for drug possession and a series of other crimes including aggravated assault and a few other more minor charges. Once Garcia discovered that it was easy to draw a connection between the girls who looked eerily like Mayner’s daughter, as well as Alicia Bennet’s resemblance to her mother, the chilling cherry on top of this case.

Gina’s adopted parents had agreed to let you pose as a nanny, as the other option was leaving their daughter almost entirely unguarded against her serial killer father. You had been the obvious pick from the team as you were the only one who was young enough to be a truly believable nanny. And who would suspect sweet little you was hiding a gun inside your purse?

In theory, everything should have gone off without a hitch. The adopted parents would go out for dinner at the same time they always did on Saturday, their standing date, leaving you with Gina. You would be wired, and so when the unsub broke into the house trying to abduct the sweet 4-year-old girl in your care you would speak your codeword and the team would come back you up while you got Gina to safety.

In theory, the unsub didn’t take you by surprise.

In theory, the unsub didn’t come out of nowhere and shove you into a glass coffee table.

In theory, your mic didn’t break.

In theory, you didn’t get abducted with a 4-year-old girl you were supposed to protect.

Everything was better in theory.

 You came to groggily, trying to gain your bearings. Everything hurt but breathing especially. The first thing you realized was that you had probably broken a rib. Well, not you. Derek Mayner had broken your rib. Wait…the unsub. Where was Gina?

You looked around in a panic, causing a sharp, stabbing pain to shoot through your chest before you caught sight of her. She was slumped unconscious just off to your right, and it looked like her tiny little body had been drugged. Something to keep her docile while Daddy dearest kidnapped her.

She stirred slightly, coming out of her drugged haze slowly. She blinked up at you with wide chocolate colored eyes for a moment before quickly bursting into tears. That was bad. That was very bad.

Before she could attract her father’s attention, you quickly pulled her into your lap, holding back a scream from the pain in your ribs.

“There now, it’s alright sweetheart.”

You doubted you looked like it was alright. You could feel the scratches littering your face and body, and you were sure there were some shards of glass stuck through your arms, fibers laced through your face. It didn’t get better when you failed to calm her.

“Take your hands off my daughter.” Mayner growled at you, slamming the door open.

“I’m just trying to calm her do-”

“I said take your hands off her!” He screamed, reaching around her to hit you.

The blow landed weakly, but the pain of it was increased by the injuries you had already sustained. It jarred Gina out of your arms, which only made her cry harder, her distress increasing. Mayner roared, furious.

“Look what you did!”

That was when your pain really began.

He dragged you out to a barn at the edge of the property, an abandoned house he had been keeping you and Gina in. Grabbing chains that implied a sickening amount of premeditation and perhaps more kills than you had given him credit for, he strung you up from the rafters, your toes barely dangling from the floor. With your broken ribs, the agony was unspeakable.

Mayner’s past kills had been fast, more business-like than most of the unsubs you dealt with. His primary focus had been getting his daughter, and his aggressive tendencies took a backseat to that. Now that he had her though, he was free to explore. And explore he did.

It seemed like the pain was never ending, exploding across your body. In the back of your mind you noted that it probably meant something that Mayner’s preferred weapons were knives, and he really liked stabbing. You clung to that, trying to escape to a different mindscape.

In your head, you were on the jet, discussing a case. Your case, since apparently you could only get so far removed from your current situation.

“Impotent, most likely,” Rossi said casually.

“That would explain the stabbing, but not the daughter. You think his impotency happened in the two-year gap where he was in jail?” Morgan asked.

“It’s possible.” Emily leaned forward in your mental rendition of the jet. “That would explain the obsession with his daughter. As far as he knows, she’s the only child he’ll ever have.”

“That makes sense. A man’s children are his legacy, and a man like Mayner would be obsessed with taking control of that.” Hotch nodded.

Mayner dragged the knife up your side, and your mental vision blurred red hot. You tried to focus, tried to bring it back, but it hurt. Gosh, it hurt so bad. You scrambled for any memory you could reach, any happier, higher place. Your brain supplied you with an unexpected one. You remembered Spencer telling you a story of when an old unsub he and Hotch had interrogated in jail tried to kill them. Spencer had talked him out of it by asking one simple question.

You took a jagged breath. “Do you want to know why you did it? Why you killed all those girls?”

Mayner froze, and a wild hope sprang up in you.

“I mean, that’s not like you, right? You’ve committed a lot of crimes, sure, but you’re not a murderer.”

If you could just string him out long enough, the team would come for you. You knew they would. They had to.

“I did it for my daughter. You wouldn’t understand.”

“But I think I do understand Derek. Because you didn’t have to kill all those little girls. But you did it anyway, didn’t you? And you liked it, right? I can tell you why if you just put the knife down.”

“What would you know about me? You’re just a nanny.” He spat in your face.

You tried to hold back your disgust, not to let any weakness show. “I’m a psychologist. I work for the FBI, and I was assigned to go undercover and protect your daughter. And do you know why they picked me? Because they knew, they knew that I would understand you Derek. That I’m the only one who can.”

“What do you know about me?” He demanded, lowering the knife ever so slightly.

“I know that it started with Gina’s mother, right? She was the first person you’d ever really killed. And when you did, there was such a rush, wasn’t there? You would do anything to get that kind of high again. It was better than the drugs, better than anything you’d ever done before. So then you wanted to do it again. But more than that, you wanted your daughter back. So what did you do? You went after your daughter, like any good father. But in the process, you couldn’t control your appetite, could you? You had to kill. But you could have killed anyone, anything. So what do we have to ask ourselves now?”

The barn exploded, and you could have cried with relief.

“FBI! Put the knife down now!” That was Morgan’s voice, strong and authoritative.

Derek didn’t put up much of a fight. Sure, he liked murdering people, but he also liked staying alive. You had broken before he was even cuffed.

Tears poured down your face, the excruciating pain and relief washing over you.

“Get me down,” you begged, a mantra rolling out of you over and over again. “Get me down. Get me down.”

It was Spencer who raced to your side, gently extricating you from your chains. Who caught you as you collapsed, yelping in pain.

“I need a medic here! Now!” Panic laced his voice, and you dimly registered that you had never heard Spencer this afraid before.

“G-Gina, is she?”

“She’s fine. Just breathe, okay? You’re going to be okay.” Spencer’s warm hands cupped your face, and you realized you were freezing.

“I’m, I’m okay Spence,” you tried to say through stuttering breaths. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Medic!” Spencer’s voice was a frantic demand now, but it was getting dimmer.

You vaguely registered Mayner, begging you for an answer as Morgan dragged him away.

“Why?” He asked. “Tell me why.”

You coughed, which hurt, but seemed to come secondary to the hot blood dripping down your chin. Summoning up all of your remaining strength, you looked Mayner in the eye in a last act of bravado.

“I have no idea.”

Then you passed out.

 You came to for the second time in what you guessed was 24 hours, except this time you were in a hospital wing.

“Mmmm,” you murmured quietly, shifting in your bed. “Is that morphine I feel?”

You heard Spencer chuckle to your left. “Actually, it’s fentanyl. They tried to give you morphine, but I convinced them fentanyl would be better.”

“And by that he means he bullied the poor nurse into giving you the good drugs,” Garcia said from your other side.

You laughed weakly, but that definitely still hurt. Guess the drugs could only do so much.

“Okay Penelope, you’re going to have to stop being funny now because that hurt.”

It seemed you had unintentionally caused the blonde distress as tears sprang to her eyes and she leaned forward to give you a very gentle makeshift hug.

“Oh, I’m just so happy you’re okay! Spencer’s been sleeping in hospital chairs for the past two days and we were all so worried! About you, obviously, not him, although we were kind of worried about him too because he already slouches so much and-”

“Spencer!” You frowned over at him. “Go home.”

“No.”

“Yes. You’ve been sleeping here for two days? That’s insane. You’re going home and you’re going to take a bath or shower, whichever you prefer, and then you’re going to eat some real non-hospital food, and then you’re going to sleep for 9 hours in a real bed.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Spencer protested.

“Which was all well and good when I was asleep and flirting with death, but now I’m awake and I feel fine. Which means you need to go take care of yourself.”

“But what if they try to give you morphine instead of fentanyl? Or what if they don’t run the right tests or they miss something that I would have seen or what if-”

You precariously turned so that you were facing him better, wincing slightly as you did so. “Or what if you went home and rested and let Garcia and the rest of the team take good care of me, and then you came back tomorrow?”

“She’s right, boy wonder. In your current state of delusionalness, you wouldn’t be able to catch anything the doctors supposedly missed anyway. Come on, I’m having Morgan drive you home.”

Before he could complain further, Penelope ushered him out of your hospital room, leaving you alone with the strong scent of hand sanitizer and latex gloves, under the bright white lights that were sure to give you a migraine if you kept staring at them. So you turned to the only other option left. You closed your eyes, stopped staring at the cursed lights, and went to sleep.

“Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.”

-Fyodor Dostoevsky

waited so long to say this to you

Five times they say "I do" (and one they don't).

- part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - 

“We’re not hiring Ray as our wedding photographer,” David says again as he emerges from the storage room with a case of wine, setting it on the counter with more force than is strictly necessary. Patrick cringes, but there’s no sound of breaking glass, no liquid visibly seeping through the cardboard, so he carries on watering the succulents on display in the front window.

“But he offered to do it for free as a wedding gift,” he counters, thinking of their budget. It’s the third time they’ve had this argument, and it comes back around to the money every time. Patrick doesn’t want to make choices just because they’re cheap, of course, but the photographer David wants to hire would set them back a full two thousand dollars. Her photos are gorgeous, but they’re small business owners, not video rental empire magnates, and they just can’t afford to spend that kind of money on a photographer—not unless David wants to cut out dinner and only serve hors d'oeuvres, but somehow Patrick doesn’t think that that’s going to happen. So this is where he has to draw his line in the sand.

“He just wants to get out of buying us an actual gift.”

That’s probably true, but it’s unfair either way. “So what? He’s offering up his time and energy to do something nice for us.”

David gives an indignant snort. “Yeah, nice. It’ll be really nice when we don’t have any pictures of our first dance because Ray’s too busy handing out cards for one of his fifteen other businesses.”

“Ray’s a professional. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“Just like you were ‘sure’ he wouldn’t barge in that time when I—”

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“No, I’m not. And honestly have you ever actually seen Ray’s photos?”

“Yeah. They’re fine, David.”

“Fine?” It seems that’s some kind of breaking point, David’s voice tipping hastily from merely annoyed over into hysterical. “So that’s all you want for our wedding then: just fine. And here I’ve been trying to plan something beautiful and amazing and worthy of our story…” It’s a line he’d read in some wedding magazine that he’s been trotting out as an excuse any time he wants to push their budget constraints, like when he’d insisted on swapping the dahlias the florist had recommended for the centerpieces with peonies at nearly double the cost. “...when apparently you’re just fine with scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

“Okay, I didn’t say—”

“Should we cancel our tux fittings while we’re at it? Maybe Roland can lend us a couple of stained flannels to wear instead.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, which he knows isn’t exactly helping, but he can’t stop himself either. “I just meant—”

“Maybe Bob could officiate. Would that be fine? We could have the ceremony on the railroad tracks. How about that? Would that be fine, too? Have ourselves a fine reception in the motel lobby. Twyla can whip up a batch of whatever fine smoothies she wants and we can all spend the evening puking in the bushes.”

A little voice buried somewhere deep in his gut tries to tell Patrick this is just an inevitable result of the stress of planning, that David is feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, but he can’t hear it over the roar in his ears. He’s spent nearly every day since his proposal helping David plan their wedding, and now suddenly David is acting as if Patrick doesn’t care, as if he wouldn’t give David the entire god damn world if he could. But he can’t. He can’t do that—he hates that he can’t do that—and for David to insinuate that this is somehow because Patrick doesn’t care enough about him or about the wedding sets fire to every ounce of indignation that has piled up in his chest like kindling. 

“Should I just give back my engagement rings while I’m at it? I could wear a mismatched set of twist-ties or maybe carve the middle out of a bottle cap or—”

Patrick slams the watering can down on the shelf, hard enough to make the little ceramic planters jump. “Damn it, David. Stop being ridiculous, this isn’t about—”

“Ridiculous?” David squawks, his tone now approaching something only dogs can hear, and Patrick throws his hands in the air. “Oh, now I’m being ridiculous. Well, I’m sorry that it’s ridiculous to want to have a nice wedding. I’m sorry that it’s ridiculous to want to hire people who take pride in their work instead of just anyone who offers to do it at the lowest possible price. I’m sorry that it’s ridiculous to want everything to be perfect for you. For us. That it’s ridiculous to want to celebrate our marriage and the start of the rest of our lives together or to want pictures to look back on and remember the happiest day of my life when this all comes crashing down—”

“What?” 

Every visible inch of David’s skin flashes red and hot as he realizes what he’s said. “I didn’t— I don’t—”

“Let me get this straight.” Somehow Patrick’s words manage to come out steady even though it feels like a tornado is ripping through him, leaving a messy, jumbled trail of disaster in its wake. As he picks through the pieces, he isn’t sure if what he’s left holding on to is a mangled remnant of anger or hurt or sorrow. “You want to hire a photographer, who’s way over our budget, because you think that someday that’s all you’re going to have left of this. Of us.”

The silence that follows is all the answer he needs, and it takes all of his strength to keep standing. He’d asked David to marry him. He’d called him the love of his life, and when David had still asked if he was sure, he’d told him it was the easiest decision he’d ever made. And he’d meant it. He’d meant it with every single microscopic atom in his body, and still somehow it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, and it feels like guilt. Like utter fucking heartbreak.

“David, I don’t know how else to tell you or— or to show you that this is it for me. That I love you and I’m not going anywhere.” 

“No, I know.” David breathes the words into the air like a secret, tiny and trembling, and Patrick steps closer to hear them better. “I— I know that. I do. It’s just...” 

His eyes are wet, just tinged red around the rims, and Patrick finds himself close enough to brush his thumbs across the thin, delicate skin there. To cradle his fingers around the curve of David’s jaw and wait, counting out the beats of his pulse against his fingertips. 

“I lost everything. Once before.” 

This isn’t something they talk about, and Patrick holds his breath. They’ve had plenty of conversations about David’s life Before and David’s life After, but they don’t talk about that demarcation line. They don’t talk about the day the CRA had shown up at the door and pulled the Roses’ entire plush, elegant, Persian rug of a life out from beneath their feet. 

“One day I was happy, or at least I— I thought I was. And the next I had nothing.” He breathes out a heavy, shaking breath, and Patrick traces his hands down to David’s arms, steadying him. “Clothes and pictures. That’s all. That’s all I could hold on to. As a reminder. That’s all I had left.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Patrick says again, but David shakes his head.

“You don’t know that.”

“I—”

“You don’t,” David insists, steely and sharp. “This isn’t about…” He claws at the air between them, like he’s trying to grab hold of the right words. “...you getting tired of me or— or deciding to leave or something.” 

The tension in Patrick’s spine relaxes a little at that, but David only seems to wind himself tighter. 

“It’s— It’s the choices we don’t have. The ones we don’t make. It’s... the things that are— that are taken from us.” His hands clutch at the front of Patrick’s shirt, two tight fists full of fabric, like he can hold Patrick here somehow. Patrick can feel the desperation in it, the fear and the hope and the pleading, and he finally gets it. He gets it.

David hadn’t done anything wrong, and still his entire life had been upended. His family hadn’t done anything wrong, and still everything they had made and earned and loved had been dragged right from their hands, slipping between their grasping fingers like grains of sand.

David isn’t afraid of fucking this up somehow; he’s afraid that even if he does everything right, that even if he and Patrick have the happiest marriage that’s ever existed, some cruel twist of fate is going to come along and draw another thick, black demarcation line right through his life. That no matter what he does, someday, even one far, far down the line, it will all be split into Before and After once again. That all he’ll have left to show for it are photographs to remind him of the joy and the love he’d once held before it too had been torn from his hands.

“Okay,” Patrick says, an apology and a concession in one, and he pulls David into his arms, pressing a kiss against the tender curve of his neck and splaying his hands wide across his back, trying to hold on to as much of him as he possibly can. This isn’t a fear that Patrick can soothe, he realizes—he can’t love it out of David somehow, as much as he might want to. All he can do is make every day of Before the best that it can possibly be and hope that David never actually has to see the After. “If it’s that important to you, we’ll find somewhere else in the budget that we can cut back. I want you to— to have what you need. What makes you feel safe.” He pulls back enough that he can press a gentle kiss to David’s mouth and wipe away the wet tracks along his cheeks. “I love you, best.”

“I know you do.”

“I do,” Patrick says, just to see the way it makes the corners of David’s mouth twitch up even as the rest of it curves down. “I do, I do, I do.” He leans in to kiss him again, sweet and lingering, until he can’t feel a frown hiding there anymore.

David closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Patrick’s. “Thank you, button.”

“Mmm, I wouldn’t thank me just yet. If we’re going to make this work, we might have to revisit that flannel idea.”

David’s laugh is small, but it feels like a piece of them slipping back into place. “I’d rather go naked,” he says.

Patrick grins wide and warm at the thought. “That might be the best idea you’ve had yet.”

can’t breathe when you touch my sleeve - chapter 3

pairing: dan howell/phil lester

rating: e (eventually)

warnings: none

tags: alternate universe, slow burn, fluff & humour, tiny bit of inner turmoil wrt sexuality but trust me it’s not that deep, eventual smut, idiots in love

word count: 3,385 for this chapter (12,653 total)

summary: Dan keeps making a fool of himself in interviews, to the point where it’s basically a meme. Now he’s got to sit down for the better part of an hour and sell his show to the YouTuber he’d had a massive crush on when he was a teenager.

read from the beginning on ao3 or on tumblr!

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

Dan has been dreading the seemingly-inevitable call from his family, now that filmed interviews are being uploaded and live interviews are starting in the next few days, so he’s almost disappointed when it never comes.

Surely his parents know he’s in London. There’s promotion for his show on a couple different channels they watch, and his dad has always been fairly good at keeping up with entertainment news. Adrian follows him on Instagram, but - and Dan isn’t proud of this - he can’t remember if Adrian still lives in Wokingham or not. He can’t even remember how old Adrian is without doing the math.

So maybe they haven’t been keeping up with Netflix shit, maybe Adrian isn’t home to tell their parents that he’s in town, but surely, surely some well-meaning friend of the family will say something? That’s always been the case when he comes to town.

After almost a whole week, though, Dan cracks. He calls his mum. It goes to voicemail.

That makes him panic a little, but she texts him an, at work … call you when I’m home x. So, questionable ellipses usage aside, Dan is comfortably reassured that his entire family isn’t dead.

Dan busies himself with catching up on the Heatwave cast interviews he hasn’t watched yet. Patrick doesn’t like to watch them and Jaime couldn’t give a shit one way or the other, but Dan is unable to allow a video of him to exist without knowing exactly what it contains. That’s a control thing, mostly, but he also doesn’t want to be blindsided by a new Daniel Interview Meme that he doesn’t understand.

He types his own name into the YouTube search bar and feels his heartrate pick up when he sees a thumbnail from BBC Radio One.

Thinking about Phil makes his heart race like he’s a teenager with a crush, and he presses play just so he can listen to Phil talk. He can barely remember what he said in the interview, so completely caught up in Phil’s eyes and grin as he’d been.

The interview itself is good. Nothing special, in terms of the actual things they talk about, but Dan can feel the difference in the way he speaks to Phil versus the way he’s spoken to anyone else - comfort. He had been so immediately comfortable with their back-and-forth, only awkward because he’d been trying so hard not to think about what Phil looked like under his nice clothes.

Dan wonders if anyone else can see the difference or if he only notices because he’s so attuned to his own body language, has the advantage of knowing the whole context.

He scrolls idly through the comments and feels heat rise to his face.

Yeah. People noticed.

Lots of comments are just about Dan or the show or the lack of Patrick or Jaime, but there’s more than a few that are about Dan and Phil’s apparent chemistry. Phil, being an out gay man with no partner and a fanbase, probably has to deal with these types of comments all the time, but it’s new for Dan.

Dan shakes his head to try and clear it. He doesn’t want to get stuck in YouTube comments and feel impotent irritation every time someone replies, ‘uh, Daniel Howell is straight’, like they know him. Like he’s ever said that.

He’s been photographed with women, because he’s casually dated them over the past decade, but he’s never said he’s straight. And it never works out with them anyway.

Dating girls is fine - they’re all softness and little sighs and hands that look so extremely small wrapped in his own - but he doesn’t think he can ever be with one for a significant amount of time. That thought is one he usually keeps locked in his mental box, but. He doesn’t shy away from it this time.

Even if he could admit it to himself proper, it’s easier for Dan to just not talk about it publicly. He hasn’t dated anyone seriously enough for it to be an issue in ten years. Nobody needs to know that every time he’s inside a woman he remembers why it never progresses past that.

It’s fine. It’s always fine. It’s just, if he’s completely honest with himself, 'fine’ isn’t what he wants to settle for.

“Moot point anyway,” Dan mumbles to himself, clicking over to Phil’s channel for a distraction. “Not like you’re gonna do anything about it, you big fucking coward.”

Phil has uploaded the video he told Dan about when Dan was busy trying not to stare at his mouth. It’s such a welcome distraction that Dan almost doesn’t clock the title and thumbnail for the buffoonery they are.

IS MY DOG PSYCHIC?

The title doesn’t change when Dan blinks. Neither does the image of Thor, edited to be wearing round glasses in front of a crystal ball.

“What,” Dan says, clicking on the video before any of it really sinks in.

“Hi guys,” says Phil. He already looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “I know you read the title and you’re like, what, but I promise it is not clickbait! As I’m sure many of you know, my grandma had 'the gift’, and sometimes I think she passed it on to me. The question is, did I pass it on to my son?”

Phil pulls an over-exaggerated thoughtful expression and then breaks, giggling and shaking his head at himself.

“I know it’s stupid, but, I also figured it might be funny? I dunno, you tell me.”

It’s exactly as silly as Dan expects it to be. Phil sits on his floor with Thor while the dog 'reads’ his tarot cards. Dan can see why this video gave Phil a hard time in editing. There are a lot of close ups of Thor and the cards, filmed more like a comedy skit than a vlog.

He finds himself laughing along and getting way too invested in what the tarot cards mean, and he knows first hand how much work Phil put into this, so Dan clicks the share button before he can overthink it.

tbh watching amazingthorgi do anything could make a believer out of me, he tweets alongside the link.

Most of America is asleep still, but that doesn’t stop hundreds of people replying. Dan’s really got nothing better to do while he waits for his mum to call, so he settles in to respond to some of them. He makes a couple bad jokes, commiserates with some of them over not being able to have a dog yet, and ignores any mention of Phil.

Maybe that’s childish of him. He is sharing Phil’s work, after all. He sighs and replies to an innocuous question about how he knows Phil. met during this and then he let me meet his dog so now he’s not getting rid of me, Dan says with a link to the BBC Radio One interview.

His phone chirps with a Twitter notification and he taps it warily, still scrolling through replies on his laptop.

@AmazingPhil @danielhowell You saw his face now you’re a believer? He’ll tell your fortune anytime! It’s accompanied with dog and sparkle and crystal ball and, inexplicably, sock emojis.

Dan laughs, the sound of it almost surprising him. It’s impossible not to feel some kind of way when Phil is the way he is, so cheerful and dorky and fun.

He likes the tweet, but responds by messaging Phil - do you have me on notif or are you just always online - because he doesn’t want to add any more fuel to the fire that is Twitter stans. He can already imagine the argument threads about his sexuality that he usually tries so hard to avoid.

The thought of strangers picking apart something he’s not even comfortable with himself is abhorrent, makes him itch, and he puts on some older AmazingPhil videos to calm himself back down.

That depends

on?

Which one is lamer lmao

Phil’s voice filling the lonely hotel room and his words taking up space on Dan’s screen where something anxiety-inducing might have otherwise been is almost enough to make Dan as comfortable as Phil’s physical presence does.

Almost. It’s unreal how much Dan wants to reach through both of his screens to pull Phil closer.

Dan hides his smile in his hand, even though nobody is around to see it, and replies, tbh those are equally lame so you might as well go with the truth

I was on Twitter anyway. I really shouldn’t be, I’m supposed to be responding to emails. Phil keeps typing, then stops, then repeats that process a few times before he finally adds, I should go do that, but you can call or facetime me if you want to keep talking or whatever? It’s easier not to type/text while I’m doing emails lol

And, in a third message, a string of numbers. Phil’s phone number.

Well, that sounds better than using Phil’s videos as background noise. Dan shuts his laptop and gets out of bed to fuss with his hair.

“You’re such an idiot,” he tells his judgemental reflection. It, thankfully, does not respond.

Once he’s gotten his hair into some semblance of order - it’s mostly still straight from yesterday, but it got all sleep-mussed and a bit wavy in the front overnight - Dan tosses on a shirt and video calls the number Phil gave him.

Phil picks up with a big grin and sleepy eyes, and Dan almost hangs up on him to stop the heart palpitations in their tracks. “Hi!”

“Hey, you just wake up?” Dan asks, getting comfortable in the hotel room armchair. It feels weird to lie back down in bed while they’re chatting. Phil is at his desk, phone propped up so he can use both hands to type. His glasses are a little crooked and his shirt is too big on him, exposing his collarbones whenever he leans forward. Unfortunately, he looks like serious wank material right now.

“Yeah, had my first coffee already, though,” says Phil. “You would not like me before my coffee.”

“Barely like you now, mate,” Dan says to try and hide his blush at the idea of seeing Phil first thing in the morning. Phil just laughs. It’s tinny through Dan’s phone speaker, but it still makes Dan feel warm.

“You’re awfully chatty for someone who doesn’t like me,” says Phil.

“I’m only bored, don’t flatter yourself,” says Dan. “My mum’s supposed to call me in a few hours, so I’m just kind of waiting around til then.”

“Oh, yeah, you haven’t had the chance to go home yet, have you?” Phil’s tongue pokes out between his teeth as he concentrates on whatever he’s reading. “My mum would be going out of her gourd. When was the last time you went home?”

Dan doesn’t really like the way that Phil keeps calling it 'home.’ Wokingham hasn’t been home in a very long time.

He doesn’t want to get into that, though, so he just shrugs. “Uh, Christmas?”

“Dan,” Phil says, looking appalled. “It’s August.”

“I don’t live here,” says Dan. “And I’m busy. My family gets it.”

Phil hums, a little disapproving still. Dan has to bite his tongue so he doesn’t say anything scathing, reminding himself that some people actually like their parents.

It’s not that Dan doesn’t love them, because he does, it’s just. Complicated.

“Do you get to see your family often?” Dan asks, desperate to get the attention off of how shit a son he is.

“Not as often as I’d like,” says Phil. He sounds so genuinely sad about it, like he really would like nothing more than to go visit his parents every weekend. “My brother lives in town, so I see him a lot.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Yeah, he’s -” Phil cuts himself off, then, and gives Dan an apologetic sort of look through his screen. “You don’t want to hear about my family.”

“I do,” Dan says, and he’s surprised by how much he means it. He shifts in the armchair. It isn’t that comfortable. “Dude, I already know every song on your iTunes, what’s so weird about telling me stuff about your family? They clearly mean a lot to you.”

He has no idea how to interpret the expression on Phil’s face, but whatever it is shifts into a smile as he turns back to his computer. “Okay, his name’s Martyn, he’s older than me, we work together -”

This time, Dan cuts him off. “You do? I haven’t seen him on your channel.”

“He’s not really interested in being on camera. We actually run IRL Merch together, although honestly it’s mostly Martyn.”

Phil explains the business to Dan, who feels himself getting more and more awed by the amount of stuff Phil does on any given day. It isn’t just sitting in front of his camera and then in front of his computer for a handful of hours.

Granted, Dan never thought that being a YouTuber was easy, or everyone would do it, but Phil seems to add things onto his plate that he doesn’t really need to do.

Dan listens for a little while, changing positions in the armchair a few times before he gives up and flops back onto the bed.

“Phil,” he says, holding his phone high above his head and making a face at the angle. It’s fine, really, Phil has barely been glancing at him this whole time. Now that Dan has some kind of idea about the number of people Phil works with, he gets the hours of emails thing. “Do you ever take a break? Hang out with your friends?”

“What friends?” Phil jokes, but Dan senses there’s some truth behind it.

“Okay, first of all,” says Dan, “big mood.”

Phil’s laugh seems like it’s surprised out of him, and his eyes flick to his phone again. They linger on Dan for a long moment before turning away again. Although, to be fair, that may be lag from shitty hotel wifi. “Is it?”

“Yeah, man, like I’ve got any fucking friends. Second of all, you need to take some breaks or you’re going to burn the fuck out.”

“Trust me, I know,” says Phil.

“I know Thor already reminds you to take breaks,” says Dan. “But he can’t force you to. I can.”

“You’re gonna force me to take breaks?” Phil hums, his eyebrows raising. “How exactly are you going to manage that when you’re back in Atlanta?”

“I can be very annoying with nothing but an internet connection,” Dan promises. “You wanna see?”

“No, no, I believe you, and I need to get this done, please don’t.”

They both laugh, quiet, and Dan curls up on his side to just watch Phil work for a little while. Phil runs his fingers through his hair every so often and mouths along to whatever he types. Dan has no idea how one person can simultaneously be the hottest and the most adorable thing ever.

“I have a brother too,” Dan offers.

“Do you?” Phil asks, more surprised than Dan expects him to be. “That’s not on your Wikipedia.”

“He doesn’t like the attention,” says Dan. It’s a half-truth. Most of what he says about his family are half-truths. “But you’re not, like, a stan account or the media or whatever.”

“Technically, I am both,” Phil jokes. “I’ll keep it to myself, though, don’t worry.”

Dan isn’t worried. He trusts Phil not to go blabbing about him on the radio, even with something as small as Adrian’s existence.

It feels a little strange to trust someone so immediately, and part of Dan wants to pull back, put some distance between them, because the combination of trust and a deepening crush can only spell disaster. He’s not going to do that. He’s only got Phil nearby for another two weeks.

After they’ve finished their media circus in London, then Edinburgh, then Dublin, Dan is off to France with Patrick and Jaime. They’re only hitting a handful of international media press, but that’s more than they were asked to do last year. It’s exciting to be expanding this way, to have something to point to and say, 'I did that before I was 30’.

And when they’re done with the press tour, Dan… goes home. Back to Atlanta, where his apartment is being sublet during his summer travelling.

They don’t even know yet if Heatwave will get a fourth season. It’s a bit of an industry joke that Netflix shows rarely make it past the third. Dan doesn’t even want to consider how Atlanta will feel without a steady filming job down the street.

Probably not much like home. Nowhere feels all that much like home, if Dan’s honest.

“Hey, you still with me?”

Dan blinks away the doom and gloom of his uncertain future and refocuses on the conversation he’s supposed to be a part of. Phil is looking at him now, the sort of undivided attention that makes Dan’s cheeks burn.

“Yeah, sorry,” says Dan. “I’m still here. Have you made a dent in those emails?”

Not the most graceful change of subject, but Phil allows it with a small snort. “No, for I am Sisyphus, doomed to answer a dozen emails only for another dozen to arrive.”

“Maybe if you didn’t have, like, three jobs, this wouldn’t be a problem,” Dan points out. “I get maybe two important emails a day. It’s great.”

“Maybe,” says Phil. He’s still just looking at Dan, his chin resting on an open palm.

“What?” Dan asks, feeling a smile tug at his lips.

Phil smiles back, brighter. “Nothing.”

There’s a warmth in his face, visible even through the mediocre FaceTime quality, that makes Dan’s stomach twist all up in knots. He doesn’t know how to handle that at all. “My mum’s calling I gotta go bye,” he says in one breath, hanging up before Phil can even react.

While he waits for his heart to stop pounding, Dan stares at the hotel ceiling and wonders what the fuck is wrong with him.

–

Dan’s mum does call, eventually. He’s been fucking around on Guild Wars and cursing the wifi for god only knows how long, refusing to check his phone so he doesn’t have to be faced with another message - or the lack of one - from Phil. Dan finishes the raid and then calls his mum back.

“Daniel, hi,” she says, sounding frazzled in the way she always seems to.

“Hey, mum.” It feels weird, now that he’s got her on the phone, but he pushes past that discomfort. “I was just calling to let you know that I’m in London.”

The sound of a door slamming comes through before his mum says, “Well, yes, dear. I know that.”

She doesn’t sound upset with him. More than anything, she sounds confused. Like she doesn’t know why he’s even telling her this. Like it hasn’t even occurred to her to nag her son for a visit. Dan has to swallow past a lump in his throat, not sure why he wishes she was angry.

“Oh,” he says. Allows a long moment of quiet to pass, just in case she wants to explain herself. She doesn’t. “Well. Okay. Do you - are you busy weekend after next? I could come see you before we leave for the continent.”

“That’s quite short notice, dear,” his mum says, and Dan experiences a dizzying rush of relief and distress before she continues. “But I’m sure I can make some time for dinner.”

Dan exhales. Dinner. He can do dinner.

“That sounds good,” he says. Another half-truth. “I’ll text you?”

“Yes, yes,” his mum says, already sounding distracted. “Text me and we’ll make a proper plan. Work hard til then, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too. Bye.”

The call ends almost as abruptly as his call with Phil, but Dan is okay with that.

im going to see my fam before i leave england jsyk, Dan texts to Phil. Phil sends him celebratory emojis in response. And maybe dinner with his family will be horrible, maybe it will be great, most likely it will be slightly uncomfortable, but at least he isn’t disappointing Phil on top of everyone else he’s let down.

more musician AU nonsense

Here’s more of the Schitt Records AU because I just want 100K of Patrick trolling David at every opportunity, no matter how wildly inappropriate. (These kinds of auctions exist and they are just as weird and off-putting as you’d imagine. Rich people and fundraisers, I could tell you STORIES.)

*

There are so many worst parts about having to manage Patrick Brewer — his constant need for tea, his little half-smile that David still has no idea if it’s laughing at him or with him, the absent-minded guitar strumming while David’s trying to have a conversation — but this might be the worst worst part, which is that Patrick in a tux looks fucking edible.

David grits his teeth and says, “So, it’s very important that you not screw this up, all right? You go out there, say hi to the very nice, extremely rich people who are going to bid on you, you play the single with the correct amount of wistful yearning—“

Patrick’s eyebrows go up at that but David’s teeth are probably audibly creaking by now and he wisely stays silent. They’re backstage, which is nothing new, but instead of a concert hall or a music venue they’re in a tiny ballroom at the Hazelton, where a few dozen donors are doing what donors do, which is make up truly ridiculous excuses to give money to causes. The various items up for auction include a Ming vase and that Wu-Tang album that finally got released from the FBI. Patrick is being raffled off as the grand prize.

“—and then they bid, and then I schedule you to have dinner with whatever lucky lady or gentleman has purchased your affections for an evening.”

“Okay, could we make this sound less… prostitute-y?” Patrick says, fussing at the headstock of his guitar.

“Welcome to the music industry,” David huffs. He wants to straighten Patrick’s bowtie, put his hands on his shoulders and tell him to relax. This is awful.

“And when you say ‘extremely rich,’” Patrick says, the question not quite there.

“I mean some of them could probably buy the entire town you grew up in.”

Patrick cocks his head. “So richer than your family was?”

“No,” David says, firm and trying to scowl but failing. Most reminders of what the Rose family had been were painful, or enraging, because they either came from curious idiots or smug assholes. But Patrick talks about it like it’s…just part of the past. Something that happened.

“Well, I guess it’s good you got me at such a bargain price,” Patrick says, just as the very chipper auctioneer announces him.

“Hello, ‘Apollo,’ then shut the hell up,” David hisses as Patrick makes to go out there.

Instead of meekly agreeing, Patrick just smiles some more. “Get out on the floor,” he whispers back. “You know I can’t concentrate if I’m worried you’re going to tackle me from stage left any second.”

David clenches his fists and imagines throwing him off a balcony, or possibly sucking him off on a balcony. It’s hard to say which is more tempting. “Fine,” he says. “Go.”

“You first,” Patrick says, gesturing to the door which will lead to a hallway which will lead to another door at the back of the ballroom, because Patrick is the world biggest dickhead. David spins on his heel and marches out, wanting desperately to slam the door behind him; instead he closes it gently and proceeds to run into a small army of waiters swarming the hall. Apparently it’s the cheese course.

He manages to get to the ballroom entrance after nearly getting beaned with a trayfull of brie; a very security guard is gazing absently at the stage. David is about to show him his pass when he finally hears it.

“—How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now For twenty brave men all fishermen who Would make for him the Antelope's crew God damn them all! I was told We'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears But I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier The last of Barrett's Privateers!”

“Oh my fucking God, that fucking asshole,” David screams very, very quietly. The security guard notices him.

“You know Patrick Brewer?” he asks, looking mildly impressed, which is the first time a security guard has ever looked mildly impressed at him, but David’s too busy having an aneurysm to appreciate it.

“I was his manager up until about five seconds ago,” David says, waving his badge.

The security guard shrugs. “They seem to be into it.”

David takes a moment away from his defenestration plan to notice: Patrick isn’t singing so much as he’s leading the entire roomful of bankers and lawyers and movers and shakers into the next verse. There’s a lot of stomping to the beat, although it’s a bit off-tempo. “How is this happening,” David mutters.

“Didn’t think rich people knew Stan Rogers,” the security guard admits.

“I’m pretty sure they revoke your citizenship if you don’t know the words to this song,” David says, because it’s true. He’d lived nearly his whole life in New York or Long Island or Maui before, the entire expanse of Canada nothing more than a reason to use a different passport when he was feeling whimsical, but he still feels a gut impulse to join in as the room roars into the verse about the slutty Yankee ship. Instead he installs himself along the back wall, filching a glass of wine and trying not to break it in rage as Patrick finally hits the final chorus and — goddamn that fucking pied piper, what the fuck — the entire room lurches to their feet, cheering and clapping and red-faced with patriotism. “Every goddamn time,” he mutters.

The bidding is — brisk, he thinks is the right word; a surprising number of people hang on while the price goes from the introductory to the interesting. David’s already trying to work out a tasteful way to phrase how high the bidding went in a press release without making it sordid, although there’s a stunning woman in her 40s with a gleam in her eye who he suspects might try for a little sordid if she wins. David glances up to where the auctioneer is buzzing around Patrick the way she’d been buzzing around the Ming vase; Patrick is starting to look nervous again. The bidding has gone from interesting to extravagant, just like David had hoped.

Before, he could have come in here and named a price so ludicrous that it would have shut the whole room up, ended the party and gotten him what he wanted, and now he just stands here with a drink and a knot in his stomach, planning to brag about how much money other people spent. He should go back to the backstage area and wait for this to be over, so that when Patrick wraps up he can kill him for singing Barrett’s fucking Privateers instead of his single and maybe pin him up against a wall.

The bidding’s now mainly between the stunning woman and a cute guy about Patrick’s age with a shy smile that’s at odds with the way his paddle keeps going up. David wonders about the ethics of putting in some bids, just to nudge up the price a little more. With only two left it’s risky, but a late entry can get people panicking and nobody in this room knows who he is; he could bump the price up another twenty or thirty easily, and Patrick would see him and wonder what the fuck he was doing, and David could smile and put in a bid and—

“Sold!” the hammer comes down and there’s some polite clapping; shy-smile guy won and Patrick makes his way down the steps to shake hands with the guy. David will need to get his name and information so they can arrange the dinner, make sure he isn’t some really sweet-looking serial killer or anything. But Patrick’s already done, working his way through the crowd with exchanges and selfies. He’s getting better at that, the hold-still-and-smile pause that Alexis had drilled into him. He could be good at this, good at being wanted and rich and worth a whole lot of money for just one night. David had never been good at any of it.

“Before you kill me,” Patrick says as he gets close enough, “I’d like to say—“

“Are you actually going to apologize? Because that would be a first,” David says, trying so hard to be furious, but Patrick’s smiling with his stupid guitar slung across his back like he’s some troubadour from a romance novel, he’s already pulled off his bowtie and undone his collar like David had known he would, and people are hovering on the periphery trying to get his attention but he’s ignoring them all to grin at him, unrepentant and joyful.

“David,” he says, stepping closer and grabbing at his wine glass, which David relinquishes without too much protest, “You should never apologize for Stan Rogers.” And he gulps down the rest of the wine and sets it on the nearest table. “Shall we?”

The security guard gives him a thumbs-up as they pass.

ASOUE’S CONVOLUTED PLOT COMES TO ITS FINAL DENOUEMENT

It all led to this. With The Penultimate Peril, ASOUE manages to encompass all the ingredients that made its success - adults being incompetent, children being too bright for their own good, self-deriding humor and dry fourth wall-breaking, big emotional moments (good and bad), secret organizations and of course, how could it not end up in flames ? The Penultimate Peril sees the Baudelaires arriving at the Hotel Denouement, which again channels Wes Anderson - The Grand Budapest Hotel, anyone ? - along with Kit who of course, cannot go with them because the too rare adults who seem competent at what they’re doing cannot be too helpful. Otherwise, where is all the fun ? Kit explains that the concierge of the hotel are twins, Frank and Ernest (both played by Max Greenfield), with each one belonging to one side of VFD. The entire first part of this penultimate installment is dedicated to a funny and intriguing detective game where the three children try to discover who is the mysterious J.S who has summoned (almost) the entirety of VFD while balancing their interactions with the aforementioned concierges. Going up and down the immense hotel - a grandiloquent retro-chic styled set reminiscent of the luxurious Squalor appartment, only make it ten times bigger - yields hilarious situations such as the oblivious children asking ‘Are you Frank or Ernest ?’ and getting a simple ‘Yes’ as an answer, the darkly noir-ish giant clock which has nothing better than to utter the word ‘Wrong’ each time it rings, or the numerous returning guest stars.

Because yes, just like in the book, it seems all the people that the Baudelaire orphans ever encountered on their disastrous misadventures - everyone that managed to survive, that is - is somehow present in this hotel. If this sounds like a big reunion for a grand finale, that’s perhaps not too far-stretched because this two-parter actually works as a finale of some sort. In addition to Mr Poe (sans Mrs Poe, unfortunately), we are happy to reunite with Larry-Your-Waiter (Patrick Breen), still trying and failing to be helpful, Babs (Kerri Kenney-Silver), Vice Principal Nero (Roger Bart) - who himself introduces a seemingly random piece of information on the deeds of Prufrock Preparatory; of course, this show has taught us to never let anything slip past our attention and this late in the game, this cannot not be relevant to the rest of the story - and Jerome Squalor (Tony Hale), still bitter and completely afraid of his ex-wife (though he technically still refuses the validity of the ‘ex’). Originally, Sir (Don Johnson) and Charles (Rhys Darby) were also present; due to the actors’ unavailability, they were written out. Given how this whole event ends, it’s perhaps for the best but Jerome still undirectly mentions Charles, referring to he and himself as an item.

The whole guessing over the identity of J.S is compelling enough for those who like me, had forgotten the book. There are enough characters with the initials to fit the bill, chief among them the dearly departed Jacques Snicket (Nathan Fillion who unfortunately only appears in a photo). But Jacquelyn Scieszka, Jerome Squalor, Justice Strauss (Joan Cusack) or Julio Sham could also be candidates. The first part of the installment culminates in the ‘denouement’ of the J.S mystery as well as the Frank/Ernest question, introducing one last VFD member, fan-favorite Dewey Denouement, the triplet to Frank and Ernest (because in this series, everything works better in threes). It must be said that Max Greenfield does a great job in portraying the three brothers. The show makes the relationship between Dewey and Kit more explicit than it was in the books, which allows two things. First, a sense of shock and suspense, as the pair is seen kissing and we are made to believe we are seeing Ernest, the evil brother; second, it makes it that much harder to watch when another trusted ally is ripped away from the Baudelaires. Just like Olivia (Sara Rue) at the end of last season, Dewey meets an untimely death, only this time, Olaf is not (really) to blame. The scene in question, which caps off Part One, is beautifully framed as everything unravels for both the orphans and Olaf himself who finally alienates himself from Esme. Lucy Punch really nails the break-up scene and leave it to ASOUE to finish it off with a daddy joke. But it’s really the subsequent scene that follows which is the real highlight of this first part. As Olaf threatens to harpoon Dewey, Violet, Klaus and Sunny all place themselves in front of him and reason with him over the attempted murder. It’s really the culmination of the twisted relationship they reluctantly, unwittingly developed - no more running, no more hiding on the part of the children, and no more chasing them around on his account. The face-off could very well be amplified to epic levels. Instead, it is handled subtly, quietly and in a very soothing way. Olaf’s arc continues to evolve and we see the facade cracking further. The Man With A Beard But No Hair and The Woman With Hair But No Beard may play a villainous role in The Penultimate Peril but overall as characters, they are more like the Sugar Bowl, narrative devices used to propel their former pupil forward, rather than formidable adversaries on their own.

The scene ends with one of the most beautiful cinematography the series has achieved yet (in fact, the whole episode is aesthetically wonderful) with the dead Dewey floating above the secret underground library that no one knows the existence of, now that its owner is dead. But again, this is upstaged by the next scene, which reveals the long-suspected identity of a cab driver who offers the Baudelaires a ride to safety after the catastrophe they caused. This season, Patrick Warburton gets to interact with the rest of the cast as his Lemony meets for the first (and only) time the Baudelaires. While the scene is insignificant for the children themselves, present-day Lemony goes to great lengths to explain how this brief and failed meeting caused him regrets and prompted him to go on his investigation about the lives of the orphans, which is essentially the premise of the whole show.

The second part is dedicated to Olaf's trial in what could be a reference to the Seinfeld finale which staged a similar story for its own conclusion. With the show coming to an end, it finally brings satisfying answers as to the backstory of VFD and the fateful night at the opera that provoked the schism. After 23 episodes of obscure references and mentions, Beatrice (Morena Baccarin) finally makes an (instantly delightful) appearance. The flashback is compelling and while clearly a toned-down adaptation of what transpired in the books, it does work in terms of explaining what turned Olaf against the Baudelaire and Snicket families. Back in the present, the trial allows Olaf, the Baudelaires (in their iconic book outfits! I swear, the love and respect for the book material sometimes really amazes me) and Esme to shine as they each take the stand. The theme of morality comes back in full stance as Olaf turns the table on the children and forces them to admit that in surviving, they too have sometimes indulged in grey areas. It's an arc that played out for two seasons and seeing the Baudelaires finally come to terms with it is a good payoff.

This being the de-facto finale, the producers pack as much as they can and there are many references to the show's trademarks - Olaf is cut short in one of his musical numbers, several recurring phrases return - but not so much as character arcs closure. Larry is the only definite casualty of the episode - the death itself was (kind of) hilariously stupid and fitting for the character but it is a bit unnerving to really think about it and about the contrast it draws when Olaf later cannot bring himself to kill the Baudelaires - but the fates of the giant supporting cast is left dangling in the air as the episode comes to a fiery end. Olaf plans to poison the entirety of VFD with the Medusoid Mycelium but he needs the Sugar Bowl first. The Baudelaires convince him to burn the hotel instead, stemming from the logic that a fire will be slower than the poisonous fungus and will allow some to escape. That's unfortunately overestimating the capacity of reasonable logic from the adults in this show and we are treated with a delightful scene where the Baudelaires try to warn various characters of the danger only to be rebuffed; even when adults do believe them, there is nothing further they can do. And so we bid goodbye to Esme, Carmelita, Mr Poe and pretty much all who assembled at the hotel. The feeling is perhaps frustrating but that's exactly how it happened in the books and at this point, the story has worked itself enough to not make us care that much about the characters that are left behind. I must say that I have never seen fire depicted so strangely beautifully anywhere else. The visuals really defy the expectations I had when imagining those fires as I read them.

The Baudelaires sail off with Olaf with two more lessons; justice can be blind sometimes, courtesy of the Man With A Beard But No Hair and the Woman With Hair But No Beard, and sometimes you do fight fire with fire. In trying to prevent Olaf from mass-murdering an entire hotel, they have possibly achieved the same result. The fire thus destroys almost the entirety of VFD, both sides of the schism, all evidence that could damn Olaf and perhaps the Sugar Bowl which was dropped in the secret library. This could very well work as the final scenes of the series. So many things are now resolved. We know the backstory of VFD and now it does not exist anymore. We have searched and failed at finding the Sugar Bowl and now it doesn't exist anymore. We have tried to prove that Olaf is guilty and we have (kind of) but the proof does not exist anymore and we instead have come to the realization that the Baudelaires are not as pure as they want to appear. In terms of what this series was about, this is as close to full-circling as it can get and as good a sign that the end is near as the visual clues - none better than the opening scene from the season premiere where Lemony walks through the now-decaying underground tunnels. Present-day Lemony continues his monologues in those tunnels, repeating that for him, the story of the Baudelaires stops here as he lost all traces of them. Past Lemony is seen sharing a heartfelt moment with Beatrice which explains why he's been on the run all series long and features, for longtime fans, his iconic declaration of love, in a toned-down version of its original form as it appeared in The Beatrice Letters. (If you have nothing else to do, treat yourself to the entirety of it, you won't regret it. As Beatrice says, he 'always had a way with words'.)

To complete the many parallels harkening back to the beginnings, we are treated to a reprise of the song ‘That’s Not How The Story Goes’ while moments from the past seasons recap the unfortunate series of events that graced our screens for three years.

The Slippery Slope | The Grim Grotto | The Penultimate Peril | The End

Rent is Theft, part 16

Read from the beginning here, read the previous chapter here.  Note:  My MC is a Filipina trans woman and I am not.  If you have notes on that or anything else, hit me up.

                                                        ***

      “I dunno… Is it OK if I take a shower?”

      “Is it OK if I help out?”

      “Um, I just want to get clean.”

      I stood up and took her in my arms.  “Aw, it’s no big deal.  Sex can be kinda messy and embarrassing.  You should be proud of yourself.  That was awesome.”

      “But you didn’t...”

      “I’ll get mine, Leimomi.  We have all the time we want.”  I kissed her cheek.  “Go shower up, be quick.  I’m gonna straighten myself out too.”

      She nodded and went through her bedroom into the bathroom.  I washed my face and hands in the sink, then went to figure out what to do with my clothes.

      The low lights in the room made a mirror of the big window, but a dim one.  I checked myself out in it, hand on a hip, ooh la la.  But something about the darkness just made me look old and skeletal.  I decided to put on all my clothes.

      Momi was taking long enough that I had a bored minute, so I went to intercept.  I didn’t want her to shy away after she was done with the shower, figured I wouldn’t let her get the opportunity.  I stood outside her bathroom door and waited.

      She stepped out and I spread my arms.  “I missed you.  C’mere.”

      “Uh, OK.”  She inched closer and I folded myself around her.

      “We’re good, right?”  I searched her eyes.

      “Oh course, Courtney.”

      “Good.”  I pecked her lips once.  “Let’s relax on your bed.  Come on.”

      She nodded.  I got onto the bed quick, resisting the temptation to bounce in like a kid.  To my disappointment, she started putting on her pajamas.  Oh well.  I took the moment to surreptitiously watch her luscious body as it disappeared into cloth.  Click went the camera of my memory, then I looked away so she wouldn’t notice.

      Momi got into bed beside me and pulled the blanket over us.  It was the blanket that came with the unit.  Her apartment must have been less ravaged by the allergy episode than mine was.  I got close, hugging her with my whole body, then looked her in the eyes.

      “Hey, you mind if I feel you up?  Just for a minute.  I like the way your bod feels through the clothes.”

      “Mm, just a minute.  I mean, I just took a shower.”

      I laughed like a movie villain and rubbed her all over.  It was a good time, but I didn’t want to be too self indulgent, so I settled back into laying beside her pretty quickly.

      I felt something slipping at my scalp - the scarf came loose, and Reverse Courtney immediately started in on us.  “Momi!  Momi!  We don’t belong here, baby!  Get out while the gettin’s good!  Don’t trust Courtney!  I can’t believe you trusted Courtney!  This is your life baby!”

      I was mad.  “Hey!  Hey!”  I pawed at the back of my head and she nipped me with painful bites.  I checked to make sure they didn’t draw any blood while she rattled on.

      Momi looked startled and upset at first, but then realized the culprit - some of her hair had wormed free of the scarves, and pulled mine off.  The strand was whipping around her head, trying to pull off the rest of her wrap.

      We both fell about the bed, wrestling with ourselves, lending each other hands as needed.  I felt like a cowboy at a demented surreal porn rodeo.  At last, we had our heads bound again, and fell in beside each other - this time sitting up, uncomfortably sweaty, romance exhausted.

      She sobbed once into her hands.  “What can we do?  What can we do?”

      I held her close.  “I’ll figure it out.  I did last time, I’ll do it again.  You’ll see.”

      “But how?  Allergies is a thing that happens.  You can do something to that.  Nobody turns into a monster.”

      “We’re not monsters honey, but you gave me a good idea.  We can look up books about monsters.  If the other thing had an answer, I bet this does too.  It has to.  It does.”

      “...I guess.”  She let me comfort her with embraces.  I loved it.

      “Hey.  Ever since I messed up before, ever since we had that hard night, I felt sick.  I was sure I’d never feel OK again without you, sure I loved you.”

      She couldn’t look at me, feeling too intense, face red.

      “I love you, Leimomi.  I wanna be your girlfriend for life.  I never wanna let you go.”

      She still couldn’t talk, just pulled me back under the blankets and held me close.  I don’t know why we cried.  We cried a lot.  Life is the worst.

                                                        ***

      The first date was a kind of test to see if the volatile feelings would break into conflict and push us apart again.  We spent that night sleeping together.  Well, I slept eventually, but had been awake for more than an hour, just watching her.

      After that, I felt great.  That turbulent energy was still there the next morning, but everything we did, every moment that passed helped to iron it out.  I invited her to my apartment for breakfast, did the housewife thing again.  Every time we were close, we touched.

      We sat across the kitchenette island from each other as we ate, talked about little things like nail polish and annoying neighbors.  She didn’t care for Perry, but the man was intentionally off-putting, so reasonable feelings all around.  We laughed nervously at each other’s jokes.

      As I went to put our dishes in the sink, I noticed the couch I’d dragged into the bedroom since my bed flew out the window.  That’s no place to make love.  I needed a real bed.  I remembered noticing her bed was the one that came with the unit, and that reminded me there was another unit on the floor - with another bed in it.  I could just drag that into my place.  Bing bang boom.

      I sat across from Momi again and a feeling began to come over me slowly.  Time still existed.  I still needed to do things within that unfortunate continuum.  What would she do with herself?  If she was half as jittery as me, having nothing to do would be unbearable.

      She noticed my concern.  “Are you OK?”

      “Yeah,” I put my hand out and we touched.  “Just being annoyed that there’s shit to do in the world.  I’ve gotta get a job, gotta research werewolves, that kinda thing.”

      “Huh.  Sorry.  Is there anything I can do to help?”

      “Mm, sometimes maybe?  Probably not now.  I’ll be too distracted if you’re here.” I smiled big.  “You make me crazy, girl.”

      “Sure,” she rolled her eyes.  “I guess I can go bug Marcie.”

      “If he’s around, maybe you could get to know Deandre.  He’s young, bet you have a lot in common.”

      “Uh huh.”  She slipped away from me and stood up to leave.

      I scrambled around the counter to meet her with a big hug.  “I love you too much, baby.  I’ll see you real soon.  Kiss me.”

      She complied, making me feel weird about it.  Why did I make a command of it?  Like Dracula or something.  I tried to make the most of the kiss and squeezed her tight.  I resisted the urge to smack her sexy ass as she left.  I’m a bad person.

    �� I got the laptop running, went into my e-mail, checked my notes.  I didn’t have enough bites to justify spending a lot of time massaging the leads, had to generate some new ones.  It was tedious work, but mostly less nerve-wracking than trying to get an interview.

      But as I went about it, my mind rebelled.  Fuck this shit.  Before I knew what I was doing, I was making a spreadsheet listing out important information about the floor.  Column A - names.  Column B - blank.  Column C - rent.  Column D - what to call it?  I settled on “curses.”

      Courtney - - - $000 - mouth on head tries to defeat me

      Leimomi - - - $000 - hair like crazy snakes causing trouble

      Graeme - - - $200 - port-wine stain? red hands and arms

      Marcie - - - $200 - something on her chest

      Richie - - - $000 - hair catches fire

      Perry - - - $000 - don’t know

      Patrick - - - $200 - don’t know

      Methadone Mike - - - $000 - turning green

      Deandre - - - $100 - don’t know

      Olivia - - - $000 - neck pops up

      Knobby - - - $000 - floor shitting werewolf? not exactly bipedal, at minim.

      I leaned back and considered the screen.  Maybe there’s a werewolf cure that isn’t a bullet, but what about me?  Worse, what about Momi?  She was so sad and afraid.  I hated it.

      There’s an obvious enough cure, I thought, with a voice not entirely my own.  What’s the one thing happening here that is unusual, that no one ever does?  It has to be the cause, right?  The building is allergic to you.  Leave the fucking building.

      Yeah.  I know.  Just give me a damn minute.  Maybe we could cure everybody just by giving up the place and leaving, but we needed more money, income sources, before that would be a safe thing to do.  Meanwhile, we needed that werewolf under control.

      To that end, I committed to getting a job ASAP and to muzzling the dog.  I minimized my spreadsheet and went at the job crap with the energy of anger.

      I couldn’t bear a full two hours of it, but didn’t want to seem weird by bugging Momi yet, so I went to get the bed out of 1207.  I brought the big key ring, clink clink.  The door seemed eager to open, almost flying out of my grip.

      I clutched the knob for dear life.  The whole apartment was fucked apart, the wall between the bedroom and living room wobbling in the breeze, a vast puckered hole in the windows stretched across both rooms.

       More than anything I was tempted to get out in the hall, pull the door closed, and pretend I’d never opened it.  But I wasn’t getting sneezed out the window yet, and it was probably a good idea to know more about what the hell was going on.  The air pressure began to equalize between the hall and the room, allowing me to let go of the handle and walk inside - with careful, halting steps.  Behind me the door flapped irregularly in the wind.

      The fourth of the apartment closest to the hall was the least malformed, but it still had a creepy pulse, a softness that allowed it to bow in and out.  It was coated in a thin sheen of mucus.  As the apartment neared the windows, it got progressively worse.  The laminate was warped apart.  The underlying plaster and concrete of the building seemed translucent, organic, exuding thicker streams of gelatinous slime in some areas, blistering out into red sores in other areas.  It was warped and folded and breathed with more dramatic motion than the area by the door.  At the outer edge of the apartment, it barely hewed to the window, and the window itself had bulged into a wheezing rippling orifice big enough to drive a truck through.

      The ground beneath me shifted and I stepped quick to renew my footing.  The places my feet had been touching the floor were now bleeding sores.  So this is what happens without the allergy medicine.  Fucking hell.  The kitchenette island was a bulwark against the worst of the outer reach of the apartment, something to cling to if the place sneezed, and I hid behind it with hands gripping the top, raising welts.

      How about that bed?  I glanced to the furniture.  Over the countertop I could see the living room furniture had slid around, was half upended, but was intact and not too bizarre.  It was hard to see the bed from my angle, but I knew that even if it was in good shape, it was too risky to try to move it out.  Probably covered in nasty-ass mucilage anyhow.

      “Oh my LORD!”  Perry was at the door, hanging from the frame, looking fit to fall and break his hip.

      The massive hole in the window breathed in, rippling luridly as if to taunt him - or suck him out on the back draft.  I took the risk of startling him by hustling to the door in a hurry, gently shoving him out, holding him up against the wall, closing the door with my foot.

      His face looked forlorn, unworldly.  Ghost-blanched, eyes searching for Heaven but only finding ceiling.  But as the air pressure in the hall returned to normal, those eyes came to rest on me, the expression stern.  “Just what in hell are you tryin’ ta do to us?”

      “I’m just trying to help, Perry.  Really.”

      “People tryin’ ta help.  All the time,” his voice was so damn loud, “I hate it!”

      I eased off of him, trying to make sure as I did that he could stand on his own.  “Yeah, that’s fine, but maybe you should go take a nap, man.  It’s been a hard morning, right?”

      He swatted away my support with his massive but frail old hands.  “I hate you all.”

      Did he have an extra knuckle on each finger?

                                                        ***

      I had to do that research, but that shouldn’t have been too hard, so I decided to take Momi with me.  I found her in her apartment.  She looked eager to get out, but had to get dressed first.  We looked a little ridiculous with our head wraps.  No culture in the world does it as dorky as we were doing.  Necessity is the mother of bad fashion innovations.

      I might have walked if I was going alone, but I didn’t want to wear anybody else out.  We took the bus.  I held her arm and leaned my head on her shoulder.  I kissed her cheeks and just doted on her as much as she’d allow.

      Every moment felt good, but in a strange way, like a balloon about to pop or a dam about to burst.  If the explosion happened, what would it mean?  I hoped it wasn’t from some inner awareness that it couldn’t last.

      We must have given the impression of people in mourning.  We were emotionally worn out and physically comforting each other.  I didn’t notice any homophobic glares.  But then, I wasn’t noticing much besides her.  I wished I could see her pretty hair again.

      I’d have preferred to buy her something nice to eat, but we got cheap wrapped sandwich halves from a drug store and split a bottled water.  After wolfing that down on a cold concrete bench, we hiked six blocks to the library.

      Most of the new library was avant garde modernist architecture with cold antihuman materials, angles, proportions.  The walls were a lattice of brushed steel beams and bulletproof glass, the floors marble that weirdly ended a foot short of the walls so that if you made the mistake of stepping too close, you’d break your ankle.  The irregular plastic drop ceiling and lights alternated between too short and too tall, too bright and too dark.  All the furniture was too narrow to sit in comfortably for anyone slightly wider than my skinny ass.  The whole effort seemed like it was intended to discourage homeless people from falling asleep, even sitting up.

      Most of the library was like that, but if one felt bold enough and clever enough to navigate the maze of narrow escalators, they could reach a dark wood lounge at the top level - with comfortable leather furniture and well placed, warm reading lights.  The place had a classist air that acted like an invisible doorman and despite the lack of an actual security presence, only a very few hobos lounged up there amid tense college kids and old people that quietly radiated old economy money.

      I knew about that lounge, despite the rest of the building’s efforts to repel me, and I dragged Leimomi up there by the hand.  We came out of a narrow royal orange plastic corridor into the warm dark space and she visibly relaxed.  There was some cool daylight up there as well, filtered through the distant steel and glass cage.  The floor here ended twenty feet shy of the wall, one short bannister all that separated people from a mortal plunge to some random lower floor.  But the isolated platform layout just made the lounge even more cozy, like a carefully crafted bird’s nest in a crook of a high building ledge.  We found a love seat and sank into it.

      Momi didn’t know if she was allowed to talk until she overheard someone else chatting in low tones.  She spoke very quietly.  “How did you know this nice place is up here?”

      “A guy took me here on a date when the place first opened.  Anyway, I remembered the rare book collection is up here, and thought to myself, old books about monsters.  That’s the place to look.”

      “What do you even think you can find out?  I never heard of nothin’ like this.”

      I rubbed my head fingers bumping into the head wraps uncomfortably.  “Well, I am confident one thing will cure all of us, and that’s leaving the building.  But it’ll take time to scrounge up the income to get out, have somewhere to go.  So until then, I just want to focus on one of us - the werewolf.”

      “The werewolf.  Who is a werewolf?”

      “I think it’s Knobby, the way he’s stooped over?  And some other things...  Anyway, some other tenants in the building have been talking about some kind of big dog or hairy man out in the halls, making a mess and causing trouble.  That puts us all at risk.  If I get any more mouths I can wrap myself like a mummy.  But the werewolf is out of control.”

      “I guess that’s why you’re gonna try to fix him instead of us.”

      I rubbed her shoulder.  “I have a plan to fix us already.  I’m gonna get a job so I can afford for us to move.  This stuff should clear right up, I bet.”

      She nodded and looked at her lap.

      “Well, I don’t think you’ll get in trouble for slouching and catching a few winks, because I’ll be next to you.  Just don’t snore too loud, right?”

      “Yeah.”

      “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

      “Yeah.”

      I felt bad for bringing her, but a change of scenery was still probably good for her, even if it was boring.  I left her to find some old werewolf nonsense, see if there was such a thing as an exorcism for it.  Fortunately the digital catalog turned up one promising result right away - a book from 1912 titled “Werwolves.”  I brought the beat-up old book back to the loveseat quickly for perusal.

      The subject of exorcism came up quickly in the book.  “Is it possible to exorcize the evil power of metamorphosis possessed by the werwolf, or, as those would say who see in the werwolf, not the possession of a property, but a spirit, ‘to exorcize the evil spirit’?  For my own part, and basing my opinion on my own experiences with other forms of the superphysical, with regard to the success of exorcism I am sceptical.”  Fuck.  I kept reading.

      “I am not only dubious as to the powers of exorcism generally, I am also dubious as to its effect on werwolves.  I have come across a good many alleged cases of its having been successfully practised on werwolves, but in regard to these cases, the authority is not very reliable, nor the corroborative evidence strong.”  Well tell me about the cases, genius.

      The book was written in a conversational style - not much sense to the order of it.  But it was easier to skim than you’d expect with the pretentious style, and eventually I found some examples - and some actual rituals.  I copied them by taking pictures with my phone, using a book as an improvised monopod.  But since it would be easier to peruse the relevant sections from the book itself - and it wasn’t available for checkout - I took advantage of our time at the library to do it.

      “Nearly all the methods prescribed embrace the use of some potion; such, for example, as sulphur, asafoetida, and castoreum, mixed with clear spring water; or hypericum, compounded with vinegar--which two potions seem to have been (and to be still) the most favoured recipes for removing the devilish power...

      The ceremony of exorcism proceeded as follows: The werwolf was sprinkled three times with one of the above solutions, and saluted with the sign of the cross, or addressed thrice by his baptismal name, each address being accompanied by a blow on the forehead with a knife; or he was sprinkled, whilst at the same time his girdle was removed; or in lieu of being sprinkled, he had three drops of blood drawn from his chest, or was compelled to kneel in one spot for a great number of years.”

       Fuck.  We didn’t have that kind of time, and the less we had to mutilate a boy, the better.

      “The rites that were performed in connexion with this ceremony (and which I understand are those most commonly observed in exorcizing all manner of evil spirits) were as follows...”  The routine was elaborate, and there was a version that only involved shin kicks, so less knifey.  That was nice.  I closed up the book when I was satisfied and wound an arm around Leimomi, careful not to loosen her head wrap.

      “Hey kiddo.  You wanna chill for a little longer, or get going?  We don’t have to go back home right now.  Maybe we can take a bus to Mars and chill.”

      “Mm, Mars is good.”

                                                        ***

   Read next chapter here.

Weekend Top Ten #478

Top Ten 1990s Films I’ve Still Never Got Round to Watching

I came of age in the nineties. I was born in 1981, and by the time 1990 rolled round I was already eight years old; you consume a lot in those eight years, as my lifelong devotion to Transformers (which started in 1984, when I was all of two) will attest. But really it was the nineties that shaped me, I think, more than anything. There’s a weird kind of Ground Zero in 1993 which I feel defines so much about different aspects of my psyche, from The X-Files to Jurassic Park; I didn’t know it at the time, but that’s also when Batman was dealing with a broken back and Superman was dealing with being dead. If we stretch it a little either side of ‘93, you get Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, two hugely seminal films from a director whose rise kinda defined the decade in film. And 1993 is the year I started reading Empire magazine, a publication which really cultivated my love of film, turning it from being “I like watching movies” to being a true hobby, probably the biggest and most abiding one of my life. And it’s through the pages of Empire that I was introduced to dozens of films that piqued my interest in lots of ways; quirky American indies, prestige historical dramas, wacky-looking arthouse fair, and loads more besides. Truth be told, as a regular visitor to Ye Olde Video Shoppe, my head was often turned by the exotica on display. Sometimes it was the cover art, delightfully lurid in the eighties; sometimes it was the title; sometimes it was just me wondering what on Earth this film could be about.

So through scenic trips round the HMV video isle and flicking through Empire and listening to the sage wisdom of Sir Barry of Norman, I was exposed to loads of films that just looked interesting; films I wanted to see. Sometimes I was too young, of course, but these films – unseen – expanded my interest in the artform because I knew that they were there. I knew that I’d be able to see them eventually. I dreamed as a young teen of being older and independent, of taking myself to see earnest and adult films; the latest Tarantino or Scorsese, a Naked or a Wild at Heart. I wanted to be a smart-arse cinephile university student, probably with a goatee and a ponytail, the kind of character that I was too young to realise was already a comedy cliché by the mid-nineties.

I got older, and I saw a lot of movies, but I read about a lot more, and quite frankly even back then there just weren’t enough hours in the day or days in the week. I had friends, schoolwork, Red Alert, Red Dwarf, and loads of writing to do. And, even back then, I have to say I’d have chosen Judge Dredd over Before Sunrise, or Godzilla over Pi.

So these films go on your backburner. I read the articles in Empire, I watched the trailers (remember when Empire would stick a VHS full of movie trailers to the front cover? Good times), I scanned the posters in foyers, the boxes in Blockbuster, and the nascent and ever-growing racks of DVDs as the decade wound on. My time became scanter, the blockbusters bigger and more encompassing (Star Wars fever lasted at least three years), and still those quirky-looking indies, those intelligent-looking dramas, those intense-looking B-pictures all went unseen.

No worries; I’ll see them eventually.

And then a funny thing happens. You turn around and you realise that twenty-odd years have passed. That film starring young up-and-comer who was in Schindler’s List? The one with the unknown, good-looking actor who it turns out has a new paranormal sci-fi series starting on BBC2? That was a long time ago, entire series, entire movie franchises have come and gone. And I’ve still not seen these films.

So here we are then; a list of films I’ve not seen, but have wanted to, in some cases for nigh-on three decades. It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that, and it makes me wonder what recent films I’ll end up skipping on till I’m sixty or seventy. And, also, I’m going to take this list as a challenge; I’m going to try, within the next year, to watch all of these films.

Or at least I’ll try to do it before 2051.

There’s actually an added level of relevance this week. My Nanna turned 90 on Saturday. 90! So I was kinda primed to do something to do with the number 90, and as it happened this was a half-written list that I’d not got round to finishing yet. I was actually going to do a revisit of my 90th Top Ten, but as that was actually “Favourite Movies of the 1990s”, this feels like a fitting tribute, both to my grandmother (90!) and to my 90th list.

Oh, one last thing: this week I’ve just decided to do them in chronological order, rather than a “proper” ranking, because I couldn’t really decide which I wanted to see more. I’ve lived with these things for thirty years!

Malcom X (1992): there was no way I knew who Malcolm X was when this came out, but I remember seeing the posters and being curious. As I grew older, the stereotypical narrative of “militant Malcom versus peaceful Dr. King” emerged, and I was even more curious about this film. And then I began to see more films by Spike Lee, or starring Denzel Washington, and I realised just how huge a deal this must have been in the nineties. So here we are, 29 years later, and I still really want to see it.

My Cousin Vinny (1992): I knew Joe Pesci back in 1992 because of Home Alone, and also – if I’m honest – because of Goodfellas, which I’d have watched on video around the same time (shocking, I know). But all the same, I probably wasn’t that interested in a relatively-straight-looking courtroom drama starring the Karate Kid. However, I do remember people talking about it; I think my older cousins may even have rented it. And as I got a bit older, and wondered why people made jokes about Marisa Tomei winning an Oscar, I became really curious. So, by the time I was in my mid-teens, it became an early-90s film I really wanted to see. And I still haven’t. Ahem.

In the Line of Fire (1993): not everything here is going to be some earnest drama or forgotten indie movie; there’s a very good chance I would have seen Fire back in the day. I mean, my dad loves Eastwood, so it could have been something my parents rented. In ’93, I wouldn’t really have known about the political aspect of the film (I remember watching The Bodyguard and being really confused when one character talked about Reagan being shot, something I was utterly clueless about), but all the same, an Eastwood action-thriller is actually something I probably would have enjoyed. As time’s gone on, that feeling has increased.

Kalifornia (1993): weird to think that nowadays, the biggest draw for me with this film is seeing a pre-X-Files David Duchovny. Back then, I kinda had a thing for Juliette Lewis, and Brad Pitt was the epitome of cool. It probably hit me just as I was getting into Tarantino (not that I’d have seen any of his films in ’93 or ’94), and – in my head – it felt like one of those cool adult films that explored themes of violence in America. I’m not sure it reviewed all that well at the time, but all the same, I’ve always wanted to see it.

Quiz Show (1994): I think that, by 1994, I’d fixed Ralph Fiennes in my head as this young up-and-coming English actor who was going to conquer Hollywood. I’m sure by then I’d seen Schindler’s List; too young to go to the pictures, obviously, but it was an immediate rental. And ’94 was when I was really taking movies seriously for the first time; devouring Empire magazine, religiously tuning into The Film Programme. I’d probably never seen a Robert Redford film, but I knew who he was because he was so famous he permeated popular culture; so I knew it was a big deal whenever he directed. I knew nothing (still know hardly anything!) about the scandal the film depicts. But I was phenomenally intrigued. It’s on Disney+ now, I think. I’ve still not got round to it.

Reality Bites (1994): I don’t really know anything about this. It’s, like, Gen-X youngsters getting all angsty, right? And it’s Winona Ryder. If I “kinda” had a thing for Juliette Lewis, I definitely had a thing for Winona Ryder. But I remember seeing the poster in my local Video Emporium. And learning, years later, that it was an early (debut?) Ben Stiller film makes it all the more interesting. I think watching it now would be like opening a time capsule to the early nineties, and it’d be phenomenally interesting; but I know as the decade drew on, I felt this slight disconnect, like I should have watched these young-centric films that critics said “defined” the decade (see also Before Sunrise and Dazed and Confused). Still haven’t!

Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead (1995): if I was just getting “into” Tarantino in ’93, by ’95 I was fully in the tank. And this is when the first wave of “inspired by Tarantino” films crested; see also the phenomenal (but, for me, phenomenally tainted) The Usual Suspects. Denver was one of the first ones I remember being talked about. Truth is, I don’t remember much about it; but it had one of those impossible-to-forget titles which, post-Reservoir Dogs, were very popular in nineties indie crime flicks (see also Killing Zoe, Albino Alligator, and Man Bites Dog). It had a very mid-nineties cast of interesting actors that I liked (Andy Garcia, Steve Buscemi, Christopher Lloyd); I think this was the film where someone told me that a character is shot up the arsehole to slowly bleed to death. That was probably why I wanted to see it, but also the whole post-Pulp American indie vibe played a huge part; these sorts of films just seemed so cool to me.

To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar (1995): mid-nineties I was very much into Patrick Swayze (Ghost! Point Break!) and Wesley Snipes (Demolition Man! Passenger 57!). Despite having seen Super Mario Bros, I’m afraid I did not at all recognise John Leguizamo, for which I can only apologise; by the time Spawn came round, he was a huge draw for me, if that helps (I imagine it don’t). anyway, I’ve gone off on a tangent. Seeing these three big macho dudes play drag queens was a big deal for me; even back then, I felt that it was good for them to do something that seemed progressive, or ran counter to outdated notions of masculinity. Was it really that progressive? I’m not sure; obviously I’ve not seen the film, but it seemed that way to me as a kid. It probably helped normalise the idea of non-heteronormative performance, in the same way The Birdcage or Philadelphia did. I’m not saying these are ideal interpretations of diverse sexuality, but when all you know is utter straightness, they were a window into a wider world. Also it’s got a hell of a title.

The People Versus Larry Flynt (1996): we’re now getting very deep into reading-Empire-religiously territory, and also David-is-old-enough-to-see-a-15 territory (the first 18 I saw was Face/Off the following year). We’re also – and I want to put this delicately – in an era where the discussion or depiction of pornography in a film was, shall we say, intriguing. Sue me; I was 14. The thought of taking a porn publisher and making him a good guy in a freedom of speech battle meant that, not only might it feature a bit of filth, but I could also root for him against the forces of censorship. I loved Woody Harrelson, too; and the insanely controversial (and banned!) poster is hilarious, if a bit much nowadays. Anyway, I wanted to see what I hoped was an intelligent and funny biopic that might also be a little bit rude; it made me feel grown-up and sophisticated. I wonder if I’d still feel the same if I watched in 2021.

Gods and Monsters (1999): jumping to the end of the decade and whilst I know full well why I’d be so excited to see Brendan Fraser in a more serious role, I’m not sure why I’d have know Ian McKellen; maybe The Keep? Or just reading about Richard III (I’d not seen it at that point)? Certainly I was very excited for his casting both in X-Men and Lord of the Rings, so I must have known who he was. Anyway, this film sounded great; a biopic of the director of Frankenstein, and also what appeared to be a rather tragic romance. I loved stories about old Hollywood, and – paging Wong Foo – stories about LGBTQ+ characters, even then. And I wanted to see what one of my favourite Hollywood action stars was up to, as well as support a British actor who I knew was in consideration for an Oscar. Knowing more about the situation, the movies, and the actors, I’d really love to see it now.

Well, there we are: ten films I can’t believe I’ve still not got round to seeing. I’m a bit rubbish, really. And these of course are just the tip of the iceberg (don’t worry, I did see Titanic). Throw a stick at an episode of The Film Programme in the nineties, and you’ll hit a film I was really interested in but still haven’t seen.

Mind you, I’m not dead yet. There’s still time… and I know Quiz Show is on Disney+…

post-emoji movie Trauma

WARNING: the following text contains spoilers and can be considered disturbing to some readers. especially my brain, because it’s leaking out my ears after typing this.

This is the first movie ever I’ve gone to see on opening night. And let me just say that, for the record, I’m glad I went to watch with friends. Without them, I would have most likely calmly exited the room, climbed up to the roof, and dived straight off.

I’m honestly fucking terrified of how much this shitty movie has pushed me to the edge. I’ve never felt more ANGRY in my life and at the same time wanted to just curl up in a ball and cry myself to sleep. This is so fucked up. What made it possible for this level of psychological warfare to be used so casually by Sony? Why did they decide this was ever a good idea to present to the public? I’m still shaking (and not from the overpriced Coca-Cola I was sold). Whether it’s out of rage or fear, I don’t know. Not even throwing myself into the deep fires of hell can attempt to restore the intrinsic warmth I felt before I witnessed this crime of a movie. They say that there’s a special place reserved below for people who cause enough pain to humanity, and it is at this point where I pose this question to the following:

Tony Leondis. Eric Siegel. Mike White. Michelle Raimo Kouyate.

Why?

Did you want this to happen to me? Was this the plan all along? To destroy everything you could possibly love in the process of creating this film, to make the audience suffer without any remorse? You got PATRICK FUCKING STEWART as a voice actor, and what is it you do?

Yeah, you make him play A WALKING PILE OF SHIT!!!!

Someone could’ve ran up to me after I left the theater, put a shotgun directly up to my forehead, pulled the trigger, and that would have still not come close to how much my mind had been blown at the shocking reality that this movie, this spawn, could exist in the known universe and continue to be shown to innocent people. There were kids there. Hopeful, happy, young kids with iPhones who thought it was a great idea to head off to the movies and watch a funny relatable movie about emojis without a care in the world. Communicating ideas without the use of words is the “staple” of their generation, as the movie so proudly portrays (even comparing it to ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics!), and there’s no reason a family shouldn’t agree to bring their children to this beautiful, heartwarming adventure, right? WRONG.

Nothing could have prepared me for the horrific amount of groan-worthy jokes this movie tossed out. I’ve been wracking my brain for an entire hour trying to remember the most potent ones, but they were so easily forgettable that I can only recall a few offhand. They were tragic. Whenever an opportunity for a shitty pun showed itself, you can bet your ass the writers took it and ran with it to lengths beyond the realms of humor. From the character known as Hi-5′s nonchalant Bye Felicia! to his two puns about snapping (as if one wasn’t enough), I wanted to get up and scream at the ceiling in the hopes that my cries of agony would disrupt the structural integrity of the building and have it fall on top of me, finally freeing me from the slow-cooker of torture that is The Emoji Movie.

At a certain point, Hi-5 (by the way James Corden, I thought you were cool. I thought you were here for us, for all of us as an entertainer, but you just had to take part in ruining me and the world as we know it by accepting this role. I will never forgive you.) mentions something about his heart beating. His… heart? This walking, talking hand has a heart? Does he have lungs? What other internal organs could fit in there and be capable of being slapped around constantly as a result of his stupid ass decisions? Why doesn’t he have arms like Gene or Jailbreak, does his body somehow take into account that he’s already a living appendage? This movie is making me sit and contemplate the anatomy of a fucking animated HAND, and that’s not even as preposterous as a thought can get while watching.

On multiple occasions throughout my viewing experience, I had to take a break to just lean back and sigh, both in anguish of what was happening onscreen as well as the sheer exhausting aspect of it all. The voice acting couldn’t have been more unreliable. Every other line it was a gamble between it being a poorly executed pun delivered so flatly that not even the 4-year old up front let out a little giggle, an obvious statement about what they’re planning to do next, or the most unremarkable snippet of backstory ever revealed. I’m sure all those scenes between Gene and Jailbreak where they gaze at each other were meant to be construed as romantic, but her blasé response to each of his approaches because she “isn’t some princess waiting for her prince” or how “women are deserving of more respect” completely knocked the mood off whatever pedestal it was stepping up to. I get it, these are actual important themes that need to be recognized, and I would be more than happy to see this acknowledged in a movie built on as many metaphors as Zootopia, but the timing of her commentary was the worst I’d ever seen. The constant interruptions made it seem like her words shouldn’t be taken seriously at all!

Unsurprisingly, character background was virtually (unintentional pun. I’m incredibly sorry.) nonexistent, and everything that’s possible to be wondered about the universe could pretty much be answered with a big shrug. For example, why does Hi-5 have a band-aid? Did he get stabbed or something? When did Gene begin to show signs that he was capable of other emotions? Was the Just Dance girl deleted after the trash bin emptied itself out? We didn’t see any signs of the characters going back for her after Hi-5 had to shake off the troll, so did they just leave her there to die? If Jailbreak had been working for a long time to get out, why didn’t she use more of her hacking skills? She pulled up her hologram window things maybe three times total to escape or hide somewhere, does she seriously not have anything else in her repertoire that could potentially help Gene and Hi-5 get to where they need to be quicker? There’s so many questions that don’t even get passively explained. Then again, I’m arguing against the same people who genuinely advocated for the setting to be called Textopolis.

AND WHOSE FUCKING IDEA WAS IT TO MAKE THE MAIN CHARACTER “MEH”??

The ONE emoji with zero interesting qualities and the most monotone parents that, for some fucking batshit insane reason, were given more than the minute of screentime they deserved. I understand for a quick gag, their emotionless response to everything could be funny, but their conversations would just stretch on and on and on. As for Gene, I trusted you, T.J. Miller. I can’t believe you betrayed me, especially after such a hilariously perfect role in Deadpool. Never in my life have I felt so disappointed in a single person. There is no justifiable reason for you to be proud of what you’ve done here. To be honest, I’m pretty sure I astral projected at least three times as I struggled to repress the memory of this trainwreck before it even ended. When I wasn’t desperately clawing at the armrests mid-convulsion, I was staring vacantly at the center of the screen, wondering how this week could have gone so wrong.

This was basically a 91-minute long advertisement. The whiplash of traveling between product placement to product placement nearly made me throw up, which was ostensibly the only thing that could’ve made this worse. Dropbox, Spotify, Candy Crush, Just Dance, YouTube, Facebook, and the almighty Twitter, I hope you’re happy with what you’ve wrought. The “emoji-pop” dance assaulted my eyes so suddenly, acting as the unnecessary cherry on top of the feel-good ending; I think that’s when I officially lost all hope in enjoying the rest of my night.

It’s honestly taking every ounce of my being to hold onto the little bit of life that I have after the Emoji Movie ripped my soul to shreds. The amount of violation I felt as my ears were subjected to endless pop culture references that were relevant years ago, nightmarish depictions of the content of each app on Alex’s phone, and the fact that the god damn Eggplant was in the Unused Emojis room when everyone knows that’s not the case is indescribable. I now have to live with the fact that every time I switch keyboards on my phone, those blank yellow faces will serve as a dark reminder of what I’ve gone through. To any of you reading this that have also watched The Emoji Movie, I am so sorry. I know how difficult it is to process. My recommendation to each and every one of you who haven’t had the chance to witness this sickening spectacle is to KEEP IT THAT WAY. Don’t give in to the peer pressure; this abomination parading itself around as an endearing motion picture will wholly and truly rattle you to the core. My only solace was the complete absence of dabbing or whipping (apart from hearing the song), and I’d like to thank every deity above and below for that small act of mercy.

Here’s to you, Sony. Thanks for ensuring that I not only sink deeper into my depression, but for forcing my mind to house the images I’ve seen today for as long as I live. I wish I could physically bring myself to chuck my phone in a garbage fire, but my entire body has gone numb. Here’s to you, and to all the writers, producers, and directors of this movie that made me sit in a corner pondering how I can possibly live in a future where this monstrosity exists.

Gravely, sincerely,

fuck you, and goodnight.

🖕

Millon’s Subtypes of ASPD: Tag Yourself

A problem I think I’ve encountered with ASPD and the public perception is that people have very fixed ideas in their heads about what a psychopath should or shouldn’t look like. Is he the slimy politician having affairs with his interns and screwing over minorities without so much as a wince? Is she the career bitch who seems to enjoy having many underpaid staff devoted to her every sadistic whim just a little bit too much? Is he the unbearably handsome compulsive liar your best mate used to fuck? You know, that guy in the suit for no reason?  And I mean, yeah. Maybe. But it’s not all as broad as that. American Psychologist Theodore Millon, in his life, did extensive work on personality disorders, specifically to do with dividing individuals diagnosed with such disorders into subtypes and fuck me if I don’t just love a good set of categories.  Technically he divided psychopathy into two separate personality disorders, one being Sadistic Personality Disorder (psychopathy) which was distinct from Antisocial Personality Disorder (sociopathy). Some say there’s a difference and some don’t - I tend to think if I fell at that far end, or even if psychopath/sociopath was/were synonymous with ASPD as some people claim, I’d be the sociopath. However, when Millon proposed that this be recognised as a PD, his proposal was rejected. Sadism is part of the dark tetrad to which most of us ASPD friends can relate here and there (a friend once called me “unnecessarily sadistic” but really, it’s a fleeting kind of trait at best), but is not its own disorder. With that said, here’s the subtypes of ASPD, as proposed by Millon: Nomadic (including schizoid and avoidant features) Think Charles Manson. Crazy bastard has spent his entire life in and out of institutions, living on the margins of society, here we have antisociality that works due to slipping between the cracks on a constant level, hard to pin down, hard to understand. Nomadic psychopaths don’t give a fuck about the Armani suit or the Rolex. They wanna grow a beard and smoke discarded cigarette butts and sure, maybe sometimes they’ll start a cult and send for the murders of high-profile celebrities, get a swastika tattooed to their forehead, just basic shit like that.  Malevolent (including sadistic and paranoid features) This is where you start to see psychopaths really behave like psychopaths. They’re belligerent, sadistic, quarrelsome, they anticipate betrayal so preemptively explode it in as loud and visually striking way they can. Where some antisocial people are the most charming and sociable creatures you’ve ever met (and so you don’t know you’ve met them), malevolent psychopaths are antisocial and asocial all at once. They don’t like you, or your friends, or your family, or your fucking dead pet dog or cat or whatever it is you keep bleating on about. Malevolent types of antisocial people want to set fire not just to your home, but to your whole street just in case you were friendly with your neighbours. Covetous (including primarily negativistic features) Incessant and directionless yearning for what they don’t have, envy, jealousy, bitterness, ruled by greed and a desire for oneupmanship, seeks pleasure in taking without giving back, and enjoys taking more than having.  Now we’re getting into Patrick Bateman territory. This kind of psychopath IS the psychopath you’ve been imagining. If he’s managed to be rich in some way, then he’s got a beautifully stylish and sickeningly expensive apartment that he fucking hates because someone else got a slightly more expensive one. If he’s not managed to become rich then he’s the used car salesman who spends his lunch break steadily poisoning his colleague Dan’s instant coffee because Dan got a better company car and that’s just fucking bullshit. Dan’s got to go.  Risk-taking (including histrionic features) Dauntless, venturesome, adrenaline junkie, heedless, fearless. This is the psychopath I’ve heard least about. She’s jumping out of planes for charity and keeping the money herself, she’s ruthless and seems to get her satisfaction not so much from slowly and insidiously working on a victim over the course of months or even years, she’s much more likely to act on a whim and take the big risk that might not pay off. She’s going to be into gambling and might be in a lot of debt but whatever, it doesn’t matter. She can always fake her own death and fuck off to St Lucia with her mysteriously disappeared ex-husband’s life-savings.  Reputation-defending (including narcissistic features) This is the WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME psychopath, the psychopath that nobody ever wants to admit to being, but hey, someone’s got to be it, and it might as well be you. This is the psychopath who is going to get caught, the clumsy psychopath. The psychopath who thinks they’re infallible but hasn’t got anything to back it up with, because they didn’t see why they should have to try or do any legwork - people should just fear them even though they’re not frightening. This I feel is the most vulnerable psychopath at all, the one simultaneously the closest to an empath and the farthest away one can possibly get, because they have human distress that comes -- not from the covetousness or enviousness from before -- but a self-imposed greatness that is so fragile and precarious that anything at any second can threaten it to fall. And you don’t want to be there when it does. This psychopath is terrified of being thought of in any way that undermines their inherent greatness. Tell that psychopath they’re a fucking no-hoper with no friends, and they will likely brush you off and assume your rage comes from a greater envy at their formidable and indomitable power and strength. But tell that psychopath you preferred their hair before it got cut? Looks like it’s you who’s getting cut now. Interestingly enough, this is the subtype of psychopath who is least likely to know that their behaviour is psychopathic. After all. It’s not their fault. It’s yours.  So now we’ve all had fun working out which we are, take a minute to work out which one you are. Of course the examples I gave were hyped up to illustrate the point - a malevolent psychopath might just stand in line at a shop having a rapid slideshow of violent imagery of the death of the man in front of them in the queue, because the man at the shop is taking too long and eating into their time, thinking, “the selfish cunt, why should HE get to take up all that space? What makes HIM all of a sudden need all that time? Fucking state of him, you know, this is exactly what is wrong with ABSOLUTELY FUCKING EVERYTHING god I’m going to burn this place to the fucking ground, none of the families of anyone in this hell hole would ever miss them, if anything they’d be WELL RID OF THESE USELESS PIECES OF ACTUAL HUMAN SHI-- oh, hi yes can I have a pack of Marlboro Reds, please? Lovely day, isn’t it?” and the time it takes to exchange warm pleasantries with the idiot checkout girl, walk home, and have a cigarette, just so happens to be the exact same amount of time it took to cool off, calm down, and pretend like nothing ever happened. 

Kaner/Artemi "written in the stars” AU Preview 

Ok! First off, this AU was created so @povverbottoms and I could have a stable, not angsty foundation to throw a whole bunch of fluffy 7288 fics on - even though at first glance the premise sounds a bit angsty. 

Basically this AU “deviates from canon” after the Blackhawks 2015 cup win. Instead of trying to ride out their capspace issues, they rip the band aid off so they can start developing a younger and more stable core, etc. etc. To do this they trade Kaner and Sharpy to the Stars. In the same year the Stars sign Artemi Panarin from the KHL. Kaner and Jonny still have a great relationship. There’s no hard feelings between Kaner and Chicago, and then some really good things come out of the trade for him. Anyway, below is the literal fluffiest “Kane is traded” AU you’ll ever find. 

warm underneath my skin

The trade didn’t come as a shock. How could it when they’d been discussing waiving his no move clause since February? It started basically the day the rumors of the cap staying flat began to spread. Patrick played harder, put it out of his head - I’ll do whatever’s best for the team - and then they pushed through game after game of the playoffs. Maybe, Patrick thought, this will change things.

Nobody brought it up in the wake of the cup final. Nobody said a thing and Patrick didn’t give it one single thought when he stood next to Jonny on top of a float, the entire city of Chicago pulsing victorious red and celebrating with them.

The cap is raised 2.4 million dollars for the 2015-2016 season. There are lots of factors working in his favor, Patrick knows - and none of them are enough. Patrick doesn’t know where he’d cast his vote if he had one, but even he knows that the organization is paralyzed, and they decide to rip the bandaid off - one 10.5 million dollar band aid. It’s a short term hit that gives the organization the room to build itself back up again - they can’t keep putting duct tape on it forever, so they say.

When they ask him to waive his NMC he almost says no. But apparently Patrick’s not that selfish.

We’ll make whatever deal we settle on conditional on an late summer announcement.

They’re making sure his victory laps aren’t tainted; they don’t want to spoil Chicago’s party either. He tells Jonny right after, though - he only cries a little. Jonny’s also the first one he tells when the call finally comes.

“It’s Dallas,” he says, laying on his childhood bed in Buffalo. “I’m going to Dallas.”

It’s not the worst situation he could be in. Dallas has weaknesses, but it’s not like he was sent to Vancouver or something. Plus, Sharpy’s coming with him.

The Stars are steadily on the rise, and then they give Patrick two things on the first day of training camp that will make all the difference in Patrick’s first year in Texas.

First they give him an alternate captaincy - a real and permanent one. There’s nothing honorary or contingent about it. We want you to really take on a leadership role here. You’ve got experience on multiple cup winning teams, and we think you’re ready to step up here.

“I thought they’d give it to you,” Patrick tells Sharpy later.

“This isn’t Chicago, Pat. You’re nobody’s little brother anymore,” Sharpy says, and then ruffled his hair. “Ok, you’re still mine, but you know what I mean.”

The realization is strangely liberating. He’ll miss Jonny fiercely - and he does - and losing that security is kind of terrifying. Yet, the fact is that, up until that moment, Patrick’s entire career has existed in the context of Kane and Toews.

So, Patrick’s new A feels different than any other he’s worn before. The crisp white on bright green feels heavier, but grounding in a way that Patrick’s never experienced before.

The second thing that Dallas gives him blows the first out of the water, though. The Stars sign a young KHL star and effectively bestow upon Patrick Artemi Panarin.

They set the 2015-2016 season on fire. Patrick’s breaking personal records, skating harder, and having even more fun playing that he thought was possible. Every time that Panarin’s body slams into Patrick’s in celebration he’s afraid that he’s going to burst, too full of simple hockey joy.

Patrick’s always had trouble finding a linemate who could keep up with him - turns out the right guy was hiding in St. Petersberg and doesn’t speak more than a lick of English. Patrick couldn’t care less, though, because their understanding of each other goes far beyond words. On the ice it’s like a sixth sense - and off the ice it isn’t much different.

Sharpy’s got a new baby so Patrick limits himself to one dinner a week with him and Abby as not to get in the way. There also aren’t any Russian players on the Stars besides Artemi - Patrick knows how they tend to stick together - plus the kid seems kind of shy, at least out of his element as he is not speaking the local language. So Patrick’s first step in taking his A seriously is to make sure that his new liney is looked out for. It doesn’t take long until Artemi is sticking to Patrick like a bur, and they’re getting along so famously through their language barrier that Tyler starts claiming they can read minds.

“Ok, what am I thinking right now?” he asks Patrick one day after a game against the Oilers.

“That your faceoffs sucked today and how embarassing that is considering McDavid wasn’t even in the lineup,” Patrick deadpans as he pulls his pads off.

Artemi shakes with a brief burst of laughter and Tyler seems to care much more about that than the insult to his person.

“The fuck! Last week I asked you if you were hungry and you looked at me like I had two heads!”

That just makes Artemi’s brow furrow a little and he looks to Patrick, tilting his head to the side in question. Patrick just smiles and shakes his head once, which smooths out the expression on Artemi’s face.

“Dinner?” he asks, absently bumping his fist against his stomach.

Artemi nods enthusiastically and Tyler just sputters indignantly.

The Russian’s English improves quickly though, helped along by the amount of time he spends at Patrick’s. It’s easy to hang out since they live in the same building. It also doesn’t hurt that Patrick’s pointedly turning over a new leaf in Dallas and not putting himself in any situations that might end in trouble, and Artemi doesn’t party, or even drink, during the season either, so they end up very much homebody-buddies. At the beginning they get along with No-English-Required activities like Mario Cart or watching tape, but slowly they move on to movies and dumb TV.

“English homework,” Artemi once mumbles in his defense when Patrick tries to turn the channel away from a zany cooking competition show.

Patrick highly doubts that Iberico Ham is going to be on Artemi’s vocab test, but he’s not going to argue. He’s honestly just too charmed by the kid. Artemi’s too much a sweetheart to exploit Patrick, but he wonders what Artemi could get away with if he tried.

Luckily, Artemi seems content with the window-side corner of Patrick’s couch and a ride to practice in the mornings.

That first year they make it to round two of the playoffs before going out against the Sharks in game seven. It sucks in the moment, but then they’re planning for next year, and there’s a surprisingly familiar feeling in Patrick’s chest. It’s… exciting being a part of something new again. The team is hungry. Jamie wants it desperately.  Artemi and the city want it. Patrick wants to give it to them. He wants it for himself.

There’s no shame in the locker room on clean out day. It’s not a bunch of false platitudes when they say that they’re close, that they know where thier holes are and that they’ve got something here that will be great with just a few adjustments.  

“When we get it, Temi, I’m gonna hand it to you,” Patrick says when the reporters finally clear out. “Gonna put it in your hands.”

Artemi presses his shoulder into Patrick’s, looking down at his toes before glancing up at Patrick out of the corner of his eyes. He smiles mischievously.

“Maybe - I put in yours.”

Patrick barks out a laugh, and for the first time in years, he feels like he’s truly only looking forward, his past like balloons instead weights trailing behind him.

“It’s a deal.”

I hope people can get into this even though the premise is a little risky. Also fun fact, this first fic is a SICK FIC. BECAUSE THERE JUST ARENT ENOUGH IN THE WORLD. The above was literally like all the seriousness to get it set up and then it’s gonna be like... hurt/comfort adorable soft trash. Hope you like it!

greyed-out mondays

(I wasn’t actually sure if it’d been a Monday; I’d just wanted to use the lyric from Sing Street, which I know we both love, but the nitpicky historian in me demanded that I check and it turns out it was. Sometimes life really is that poetic.)

I’d watched the movie, of course, and though I hadn’t read the play I did like many things about the story, but I don’t suppose it was a favourite. My primary motive for even going was a) cheap front row tickets through TodayTix, and b) Luke Treadaway, who I’d been going mmmrph about ever since he took his helmet off in Richard III.

So I didn’t expect all that much from the play, except that when I clapped at the end I meant it, and I hadn’t even stood up for Sirs Patrick and Ian. 

Maybe it’s the need to see it in a more intimate setting; you are, after all, intruding on the lives of Martha and George (of course more famous as the first names of the Washingtons, and in doing so cleverly bridging micro and macro). But the play packs a power that not even the tempestuous performances of Taylor and Burton had. Staunton and Hill had no such famously turbulent background, but they bounce off each other like they’d been trapped for years.

Many plays, or other adaptations, are overshadowed by the ones that have gone before. I can barely give remakes a glance because my brain always compares them to the original; even when I was watching Phantom of the Opera in the West End I kept thinking this guy isn’t as good as Colm/Ramin/Michael etc. (As a side note, now you know my Phantom preferences.) But if Taylor was wide-eyed and wild, Staunton is bruising, and whatever wildness always has an edge to it. The contained nature of the play (forgoing the brief respites the film offers, in the car and the diner) makes it even more claustrophobic, suffocating, and the tension between how the characters seem to know what’s going on and also don’t at the same time is perfectly balanced.

But this isn’t really about the play, as much as I hope you’d been able to catch it (because it’ll really blow your mind). This is about a dark stage door on Oxendon Street, and two strangers with absolutely no reason to talk to each other besides maybe being the youngest, most alien, there. 

I don’t know what made us start talking. I hate talking to strangers, even ones I’ve been formally introduced to; I almost never strike up random conversations for fear of saying something wrong and then having to set myself on fire when I get home. With these kinds of chance meetings it always strikes me how different life might have turned out if Something hadn’t happened, or if Something had stayed the same. Maybe she spoke first. And if she did then I am eternally grateful to her for breaking the cycle.

There must’ve been a dozen of us stood outside. Conleth Hill came out first, and I didn’t quite know him so I didn’t get in the way of people who did; just sort of looked quietly awkward, hanging around and maybe mumbling a I really liked it or something equally pathetic. Luke came out next, dressed in a beanie and looking endearingly grubby in contrast to his slick golden boy just an hour ago. I asked for a picture, she asked for a picture, and maybe that was where it started. All I remember is both of us gushing about how lovely he was after that, and how she was waiting for Imogen Poots. With my limited social interaction skills I asked what she was doing in London and we found literature something to talk about.

Imelda Staunton was also lovely and surprisingly candid (I remember having a giggle as she tried to figure out which way she was supposed to go), and by the time we resolved that Imogen was either not coming out or had gone home, it’d been a solid half hour or so of chatting. And this never happens to me, y’know. I’ve been for four or five stage doors and I’d never actually been able to work up the courage to say anything, but there we were, me finding someone who was into stuff I was into as well.

I only wish that we’d met earlier. By that point it was nearing the end of my time in London and that always preoccupied my mind. I love London. It’s one of the greatest cities in the world, and if not for football it would be my favourite, hands down. But I’d always felt a little more at home with the place than with the people, faces instead of names, ghosts who I met for two hours a week and then never saw again. London isn’t quite as good for that. But the great virtue of the city is that there is always someone you might run into, someone you can talk to for the same two hours and reach an entirely different level. You just have to wait for it to happen.

I can’t remember what we exchanged - facebook? instagram? telephone numbers? - only that she found me just a while later on twitter. It was the day of the Europa League final and I imagine my twitter was a bit of a culture shock (I still remember her first tweet - wandering into a different realm than i'm used to here :P - you poor thing). The wonderful thing about twitter is that everyone is so open on it that you kind of get a feeling of what the person’s like, and through sheer forced proximity become friends. We met another day when I came back, watched Branagh and ate Ben and Jerry’s, yelled about boys and movies, and I’ve loved her ever since.

Life is so odd. A million fortuitous circumstances were needed for her and I to meet and be friends - I had to have gotten the rush tickets that day, she and I had to have been keen on Luke Treadaway, we had to both wait for stage door, either of us had to have said something, we had to have exchanged contacts, she had to have found me on twitter, we had to have had enough time for some very good, very cheap ice cream. I don’t know when I’ll see her again, in person. I’m stuck here now and she’s got her own things and it’s hard. But what are friendships if you don’t work for them? I appreciate all of my online friends just as much (some more) than the ones I have in real life, and I’ve been so lucky that I grew up in the right age that keeping in contact with people from all over the world is as easy as sending an electronic message. 

Still. Nothing beats hanging out with someone in real life, someone you can be comfortable around, who understands exactly where you’re coming from. Someone you don’t have to pretend with. And I found that in a back alley outside the Harold Pinter on a dark Monday night.