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WHO: John Murphy + Joseph Kavinsky
WHERE: The Meadows at De China
WHEN: 8/20
WHAT: Return from canon update
WARNINGS: Uhhh all things that go with k and Murphy, warnings in the subject lines

[ the Porter returns Murphy to the same place it took him from - his bed in the Meadows, with the walls that seem to give a grand view of the moon or earth's surface itself, albeit no longer in the soft pajamas ronan had dreamed up for him. He's back in the worn, old, drab clothes from home, ripped and torn and singed, weathered from a harsher world. Recently cleaned, thankfully, due to Becca's lab and the bunker, but a similar consequence - he's back to being a scrawny thing, not as well fed as de chima had made him before. That all, and, the sickly bags under his eyes that come with knowing you'll likely die violently soon.

It makes the warm weight against his chest a surprising comfort, one his half conscious mind takes to be Emori at first, Murphy letting out a soft hum, as he snuggles down against the body curled against his. It's the scent that pulls him into the world at first - cologne Kavinsky started wearing when he came out of the psych ward a new man, but the hint of his hair gel and body wash are still the same. Of course, he doesn't know it as that when he senses it, but it flickers an image in his mind, projected on the backs of his eyelids, a boy with soft skin and sharp eyes, lips much more tender than the personality attached, and an accented voice he'll never forget.

Murphy's eyes crack open, to look over the boy tucked against him, and he still can't remember de chima, the imports, the Russians, but he knows this boy. ]

I thought I dreamed you. [ Murphy murmurs, a thumb lifting to brush over Kavinsky's cheek. He'll realize later how funny that sentiment is, when it comes back to him what this boy's name is, where he's from, and who he is, aside from this bright spark in hidden off corners of his mind. Right now, his mind is still back in that hazmat suit in Polis, headed for the jeep that'll take them to the boat that'll take the to the island where he plans to die. Or try his best not to, and likely starve to death anyway. As Bellamy so kindly pointed out in stereo.

Maybe it's over already. Maybe death's come and gone and this is just some pipe dream his consciousness is left in. He seemed to remember dying feeling much more intense. ]

Am I dead?

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[the fact of the matter is

kavinsky had had a gun under his pillow and his first waking instinct is to put the muzzle somewhere threatening. it's a thrill of instant early morning adrenaline in his veins, that pops his eyes open before they're unblurred enough to see. lizard brain, that knows only threat assessment, the permanent possibility of death. it's one of the side-effects of being a monster: you know there are such thing as monsters.

the fact of the matter is also, he knows murphy's weight-- even when it's diminished. he knows his scent and taste. and crowding that first flash of panic, he feels a squeeze in his heart, a surge through his guts that fucking hurts. he blinks, and his eyes-- don't get less blurry. his fingers are tight on the gun for a long, silent few seconds, as if it's a 🐻 bear and not a deadly weapon.

the last time they spoke, they'd been screaming.]

Maybe, [he says. his voice is a ghost of itself.] That's something people come back from, here.

[ there's a jerk paired with kavinsky's brain coming to, and the corner of murphy's lips quirk, though he isn't exactly sure why, yet. details about this boy, and about this place, are slowly filtering back into his head, like a fog clearing. mostly this boy (kavinsky, joseph kavinsky, a boy he spoke with over a prison table, bitterness and depravity in his eyes), because he frowns about the coming back from the dead thing, confused. ]

Here... [ he knows he knows this place. the room, the bizarre walls and ceiling, the particular decor - ronan pops into his head next. the meadows as a whole, with it's dream-like quality, because... because it is a dream. that shifts into place. the nanites, the powers, the porter.

murphy's eyes are unfocused on the soft collar of kavinsky's sleep shirt, as he puts all these puzzle pieces back together in his head, thumb brushing against the side of his neck, idly. the familiar shape of his body, boney hips and slender torso, feels right and reassuring against him, and murphy unconsciously tugs to pull him closer, legs wrapped in his, arm snaked around his shoulders. it feels right, but home is still so fresh in his head. emori is, and it doesn't seem to compute to him, that he can have this similar but entirely different thing echo with a boy who's nothing like where he came from.

and this collar between his thumb and forefinger also looks really familiar. uh. ]

Are these my pajamas?

[there's a lull then, in that vague, intervening, in-between space. you know the space. peter pan mapped it in between sleeping and awake where you would remember dreaming, and beowulf found it between strength and death, in water, its raw and unbreathable ambiguity, where you might drown. clarke griffin-- well. she's found it between all kinds of grey spaces-- between right and wrong, our territory and theirs. the human mind struggles against ambiguity.

sometimes, with an adrenaline snap.

kavinsky's releases the handgun under the pillow. in the space it takes to blink or scream or bite through tendon, he snatches murphy's wrists. one in each hand. he's leaning over murphy suddenly, and leaning close. his eyes scanning the other boy's face, taking in the deepened hollows of his eyes, his narrowed cheeks. there isn't enough force behind the grip on the other boy's arms to make pain, but it's sudden, all right, and firm. fuck ambiguity.]

Murphy. [no more ghosts; kavinsky's voice is a solid croak. is he real? (this time. this time, is he real?) kavinsky's murphy's plastic pyjama buttons drag against murphy's chest as he stoops his rumpled head down. he's never seen anyone go home then come back. he's losing his mind. he's getting murphy back. he's]

I loved you and I thought you were gone.

[ kavinsky moves to demand all of his attention, as he usually does, but it's been a while, for murphy, and it's not as used to it as he was before. eyes blink wide, that flicker of tension going through his limbs as his instincts kick in, telling him to lash out and run. not from k. he's never had to run from k, even the time with the drugs. if he'd known it was kavinsky behind the illusion of the dragon, he'd have stayed put.

now, he just blinks at him, wide-eyed, a bit breathless, not sure he'd heard him completely right, or as if there's a punchline to wait for. murphy blinks to the side, looks around the room, some of his clothes tossed to the floor, evidence of kavinsky's stuff, food wrappers and beer cans. how long had he been gone, and how long had kavinsky waited for him to come back? it was at least a month or so he'd been home... ]

You mean it?

[ he'd played so long on the assumption that he was just a fun game to kavinsky, or a useful boy toy, especially after their last conversation, something that's filtering back to him now. it seems ages ago, and so inconsequential. kavinsky'd waited for him? ]

The first part. [ the i loved you that he'd never dreamed he'd hear from kavinsky. ] Were you waiting for me?

Edited 2017-08-29 18:51 (UTC)

[does he mean it? yes. whether or not it's true depends on a number of other things— if what kavisky's day-to-day experience of loneliness and boredom and want counts as love, if love itself accommodates the terrible things he's done. that he'll continue to do. lies of convenience, and more malicious ones besides.

but he means it, which is more than he could say for anyone in his life.]

Yeah. [he doesn't blink. if murphy is going to fall out of the world again, it won't be without witnesses this time.] Lynch let me hang out. Gave me some funny looks over the Internet, but he did. I've been in here mostly. [stress-smoking cigarettes on the window sill, practicing psychometry on every fucking thing between the door and the far wall. some of murphy's pyjamas will be rumpled when he opens the drawer, the shuffle of objects beneath the bed not quite as he left them. maybe he won't notice.

only love could hurt as much as that had; only love could have eroded enough of his life that a fucking sinkhole had opened in murphy's absence. only then had kavinsky realized he'd timed breakfast to murphy's late morning wakenings, grown accustomed to asking the hotel receptionist if the unnamed he had come in, gotten used to another body in his bed, another hand on his radio.]

You should use more fabric softener. What happened to you?

[ murphy's breathless for a moment, not sure what the normal way to react to hearing that is. there's giddiness in him, mixed in with the adrenaline from what he'd come from and where he is now. he and emori never said it so directly, though they knew it about one another. his lips rolls between his teeth, licking at them, before giving an answer to the latter question. ]

Went back home for a few months. Surprise, surprise, world's ending again.

[ a beat, murphy's eyes still wandering over kavinsky's features in something of a daze, and eventually, he leans upward, kissing him soft and slow but confident, no second guessing in what he knows he wants. ]

Me too. [ Love. an ache that stays in your chest when you're away. he'd had emori back home, but like kavinsky isn't emori, emori isn't kavinsky. he shouldn't love them both, there has to be something inherently contradicting in that, but he does, and murphy's still not sure what to do with that. it wrings up tight in his chest, makes swallowing difficult, but he knows there was something empty when he was home that's filled when he's here. right here. and that's as much as he can say at the moment. ]

Missed you. I didn't know it was you I was missing then, but-- [ which sounds dumb and fake, and murphy cuts it off, looking for something more specific. ] This.

[kavinsky hunts across the other boy's face with his eyes, which are wide, pupils blown out. there were no times at all, this past week, when he had mistaken ronan's face for murphy's and the realization had settled in his stomach like concrete. if he'd been in love before, it hadn't felt like this. he doesn't think it was only the cocaine, either.

something about actually getting to know a boy, before you're willing to maim and kill and die over the minor missteps he makes in life.]

You afraid to die? [he asks. there's a slow reptile blink, but he isn't being cold. he takes one of murphy's hands and pulls it up behind his own neck. starts to sit up, taking the other boy with him, his tattooed fingers insistent around murphy's waist. kavinsky moves off his tummy and lap, but doesn't go far, caging the boys thighs and hips loosely in the sprawl of his own skinny legs.] You're afraid you're gonna die.

You want me to make you forget? [he isn't sure. murphy seems less interested in escaping reality than kavinsky has ever been, personally. it's

one of the things

he

lo

you know the rest.]

[ afraid to die? yes. of course. he's always been, and that's what's kept him alive all this time. he's terrified of going out of the world alone and pathetic and unnoticed. with emori, at least he wouldn't be by himself, but what a sad way to lose. they'd been ready for so much more together, and it's about to be over so soon. well, as soon as they starve to death, at least. maybe they'll be able to find a second bullet for that gun he'd left on the floor next to the couch.

murphy's eyes, blue and wide and showing more emotion than he'd like them to, stare up at kavinsky, and that familiar reptile blink of his. he'd just told this boy he loves him, and being pulled into his arms now, and murphy's automatically move to circle around his ribs and waist, palms crawling up his back, fingers bunching in his shirt. he knows this place, and it feels safe, but every time he blinks, he sees the fire and wasteland waiting to swallow him. ]

Yeah. I'm afraid. [ murphy murmurs, an almost imperceptible shake in him, and water building in his eyes, before he lets out a harsh, sharp laugh, looking to the side and sniffling, but not moving any farther from him. a raw kind of honesty shared between them. ] I think my nine lives ran out.

[ you can't lie or trick or steal your way out of a nuclear wall of radiation and fire, or starvation. kavinsky asks him if he wants to help him forget, and it's oddly exactly what ALIE had offered him, enough that he chuckles, something hollow and wry. he pauses a beat, swallows, and brings his hands up to frame k's cheeks, thumbs over his cheekbones. ]

I want you to make me remember. [ this life, what they are, what security feels like. what he struggles tooth and nail to hold onto, to reach, in whatever universe it is. what love and home are, above everything in his head that's scared shitless. with kavinsky, he feels brave, indestructible. feels like more than just his brittle bones and scarred skin. murphy touches his forehead to kavinsky's, smiling softly. ] M'Sorry I left you. Didn't mean to.

You know what this means. [kavinsky isn't done moving. he speaks these words with his mouth pressed against the flat of the other boy's belly, even as he works the heavier fabric of the boy's trousers off his hips, his ass, one pant leg off his one leg and then the other off the other. kavinsky runs his knuckles along the pale line of murphy's calm, then tucks a kiss into the damp crook of his knee.] Means you got nothing to go back to, right?

And you know I got nothing to go back to neither.

[it's a little awful, maybe. possessive? kavinsky balls up the removed trousers in his hands, throws them at the corner of the room. they cut a sharp trajectory through the air and thwap neatly in with everything else. the next moment, he's pulling on murphy's shirt, his shoes, his socks, disrobing the boy piecemeal until he's all unshelled parts and blinking eyes. kavinsky draws his fingers up the smear of hair at the top of his thigh, rubs them through the crinkly curls of pubes, fondly over his dick, like soothing a horse. he strips his own pjs off after.

and then he's turning murphy, curling up behind him, settling against his torso. spooning him, chest to back, although he'd probably deny it if anybody used the phrase. probably. it's hard to know what embarrasses kavinsky anymore these days.]

You're not supposed to apologize for getting jerked around by other people, sweetheart. You don't remember getting fucked off at me for shit like that?

[ nothing to go back to. it's good kavinsky's behind him, because there's a fear in him that doesn't want to let k know, the hesitation in it. emori. bellamy and clarke. raven. emori. going back means leaving kavinsky here, and he can't bear the thought of that now. but staying here means knowingly leaving emori to die alone, and there's despair in him for that too. in the end, he swallows, and pulls kavinsky's arms tighter around his shoulders and waist, sinking back into the welcoming, affectionate, secure warmth of him. ]

Right. [ murphy breathes, letting out a half-hollow chuckle. ] No one half sane would wanna go back to that shithole if they had a choice.

[ which is true. the survivor's move would be to stay here as long as he can. but god, there's this caving feeling in his chest, thinking of abandoning her. the same the the inverse is true - imagining looking at kavinsky waiting for him on his bed, thinking he'd never come back home. the topic of the fight is a good distraction, and he hums, trying to recall it. the details of it are fuzzy. something at a picnic. a boy by kavinsky's side and murphy feeling dejected and vulnerable, thus making him vicious. ]

I remember... laying down here, after, and hating how empty the bed felt. [ it's true, spoken quietly, likely that no one even listening right outside the door could hear, as he turns to press his nose into the curve of kavinsky's arm. ]

Hated that I missed you that much. [ that he'd gotten so attached when he knew he shouldn't. that it felt inescapible, that someone he'd come to care for so, so much, again, would be leaving him behind without a second thought. again. he'd just wanted him back. ] That part stands out more than the fight.

[behind the milk-white curve of murphy's ass, kavinsky is jerking himself off. brusque and quick about it, making himself hard with a dry palm. some things haven't changed since murphy went and came back, including his rather fucked up libido. but he wants to try right now. for murphy. for them!! and because he doesn't know what else to do.

some things, not even dr. chilton can change.]

There was that one, [he agrees. murphy can feel it when the other boy sets a hand against the dip of murphy's waist, reassuring him he'll be right back. he has to scrounge for some lube a second, is all. luckily there's plenty of lube hidden around the immediate vicinity of the bed, for reasons. no great mystery as to why.] There was also when your girl Blue Sargent flipped out in the living room, you remember. I apologized, you bit my fucking head off. [fucking. cussing means shit is real.] But you would've missed me too much, so you only stopped talking to me for like minutes. [there's audible amusement in kavinsky's voice, and then a crick of the plastic lube cap moving, the liquid sputter of lube.

kavinsky's mouth flattening a dry kiss to the back of murphy's shoulder.] You remember that? [he asks, because he doesn't know about emori or clarke and he can't ask about them.] We spend a lot of time fighting.

[probably almost as much as they spend time fucking. both numbers could be larger, really.]

[ it's not difficult to figure out what kavisnky's doing back there, the slapping, fleshy sounds of him jacking off, and murphy can't help but to smile, a quiet, almost-laugh leaving him in a huff, as his hand squeezes at the arm he's still holding on to. at least, until he parts to grab lube, and murphy leans back to watch him, the curvy of his back, the way the ink stretches over his pale skin, all bone and muscle under it. ]

Said the guy who slept in my bed, in my pajamas, for how long?

[ don't you pretend like this missing thing is one-sided now, bitch, he's seen the evidence, he woke up in the middle of it. it's this, though, that he needed. lounging around and chatting, kavinsky being kavinsky, and murphy wanting just to reach out and touch him, hearing him ramble on for hours. ]

Was that her name? Who the hell names a kid after a crayon? [ 'blue'. yeah, he still doesn't like her. he doesn't generally like anyone who threatens people he loves with scissors. bitch. ] We're both naturally aggravating people. Can't be helped. Just means we have awesome make up sex.

[ or 'hello, i'm back from the beyond, tell me about your feelings' sex. when k gets back to him, curled up at his back, the heavy stiffness of his cock poking against his asscheek, murphy reaches back, to run an open hand down the boy's side, over his hip and thigh, and back up again, sighing softly, trying to just relax into him. let the rest drown out. ]

Hey. Say it again. What you told me when I woke up. [ i love you. ]

It's a color, [kavinsky points out, always one to be agreeable. but he's also coming back to murphy, scooting against his back, fitting his chest into the question mark curl of murphy's spine, and then he's moving his cock with his hand, tucking the head of it into the cleft of murphy's buttocks, fumbling a little from the excess lube and the tight fit of murphy's body. maybe if he were thinking properly, it'd occur to him that no penis has breached the privacy of murphy's body in-- months, likely, and he could use a little more prep.

but kavinsky isn't thinking about that now. all he's thinking about is getting inside of murphy as quickly as is humanly possible.]

Love you. [maybe murphy can feel the shape of it, the curve of kavinsky's smile behind the curve of his ear, the rough chuckle somewhere in the grain of his voice. a grunt snags in his throat the next moment-- his dick poking in, the head of it popping the pink rim of murphy's hole, but he rolls his hips back the next moment, makes the next thrust near as shallow. he presses his nose to the crook of murphy's jaw, something desperate about the seamy heat of it.] Love you, [he says again.] I-- fuck'n'—

[ the word sounds foreign to his ears, love, and when his lips formed it in desperation as he'd begged clarke for emori's life, it was a thing that tumbled out, with barbed wire dragging behind it, scraping up from his lungs, along his throat, leaving him raw and ruined.

murphy's the same now, when he hearts kavinsky whisper-rasp the words like a spell, twined with the pressure of him sliding into his body. his lips curl, hissing, because it stings (it's been a month or so, after all), but the way his hips push back for him makes it clear he's not worried about the pain. part of what makes it all real, part of what makes him him, what likes a boy like joseph kavinsky to him. they're cruel, petty things, rough and reckless, and murphy wouldn't mind it if kavinsky scarred him all over. ]

K— [ his throat struggles out, when murphy reaches back to grip at kavinsky's side, down his hips, pulling at his thigh, his own leg eases forward and up some to spread himself, make more room, invite kavinsky deeper in. ] M'not— going anywhere. Not without— you.

[ he loves emori, yes. he loves kavinsky too, these are both true. and as soul-crushing as leaving emori feels to him, there's a gaping sinkhole in his chest when he thinks of leaving this boy behind too. he'll just have to have them both - bring her here, and the others, save them from that hell, and... deal with the rest when they get to it. with kavinsky fucking into him, body singing pleasure and the slightest bit of exquisite pain, he can hardly think of much more beyond the lump of emotion crawling up his throat, those barbed wires and razors dragging along his insides again. murphy's lips graze kavinsky's jaw, as he breathes them out with a desperation and fear he's always had tangled up in the concept of it. ] Love you. Fuck, I love you.

[i don't know what that means, kavinsky would have said in some au. either to be shitty or if he were being entirely honest. i mean there are very famous songs about it; his confusion is a little bit understandable, at least.

sex has always been easier. and here you have it: kavinsky feeling the other boy's thighs spread open, the knee hooking over his own. and he ruts in nearer, pressing his open mouth to the back of murphy's neck and then the twisted reach of murphy's jaw, a haphazard pattern, toothless and tongueless, but dumb and open as a new kitten. shot from above, they'd make some embarrassing porn-- two pale boys, nearly hairless, spooning, literally spooning on a mess of blankets and the deflated remains of used up spongebob pyjamas. it's not a forceful fuck with the most radical positions. not at all.

but it's tight and warm and good, and kavinsky's hand coasts and flutters and flinches shut on the flat of murphy's belly.

who i am now, or who i was? he'll wonder, later. maybe even who else? but right now, he just cinches murphy's bottom lip in his teeth, just for an instant, stretches it a quarter-inch before it snaps back and he buries his face behind murphy's ear. and his only question is:]

How much?

[ murphy can hardly decide who he is most days, if what he'd done back home decides that, or what he's done here, or something else entirely. hell, he doesn't even know who he wants to be most days. but he knows he likes who he is when he's with kavinsky. he likes how his mind feels, how his body does. how the air around him seems calm and buzzing at the same time. excited, yet soothing.

how much? it's not like it's quantifiable, and it feels like he's full with it, as k's cock slides up into his body, parting him open and digging deep. his body knows him, bend and arches and ruts back against him for more, recognizes kavinsky's lips and his hands on his skin, his dick buried in him, the sharp edges of his hips as they grind against his ass. his head is throbbing with the thought of it, hands gripped in his hair, on his forearm. ] Too much, maybe.

[ a sharp laugh, that's punched out into a moan, murphy pulling at k's arm like he needs him closer, leaning closer to the mattress to try to rut against it. ]

You're under my skin. [ murphy whispers out, voice a rasp, thick with emotion and need. ] In my bones.

[ it hadn't been the plan, to get this close to him, but here he is, and there's no denying it. not with the way he turns to try to catch him lips, how he tries to fit his back against the span of k's shoulders, how his body shudders and shivers around him, and all parts of him wind up tight and tense and ready to snap. ] Like you there. Makes it feel less— empty.

Are you talking about your asshole? [because he could be, it'd be convincing. murphy is as tight as a virgin, or as tight as virgins are supposed to be according to the fantastical butthole stories that gay lads like kavinsky have about virginity, and its a fucking delight, the silken flex and grip of him around his dick, the shuddering pleasure in its reception. suppose they die. well everyone fucking dies. but he isn't going to die until he finishes inside of murphy and that's something.] Oughtta be.

[murphy feels the curve of his smile on the back of his neck for a moment.

and then kavinsky's hitching him up. getting his dick out of him just long enough to move him by his hips, tip murphy up to rebalance him on the bony points of his knees. and then kavinsky cups him with his body again, finding the warmth of murphy's back with the brush of his own tiny nipples and the braced muscle of his belly. he fiddles his own cock with his hand, pressing it into the slicked-open recess of murphy's hole, and then

and then maybe he lets his hand fall back to the mattress, find murphy's fingers on the rumpled coverlet. finding traction there, instead of on the bed itself, as he starts to fuck murphy into the bedsprings, gauging the strength of his thrusts with the sound of murphy's dick knocking into his own belly.] I like your bones, [he says, sounding like a serial killer, but not because he is one.] And you're all soft between them.

[ talking about his asshole, wow, you douche, here he was trying to be earnest for two second and you just make it into butthole talk. but this, really, is why he loves him in the first place, and the laughter that leaves murphy and he's manhandled around, ass yanked up and shoulder's pressed to the bed, is something bright and true, without the sick dark feeling that always clung to it back home, the doom in the back of his throat, creeping into his words. ] Of course, what else would I be talking about?

[ they both know what the fuck he's talking about, and no, it's not his asshole. here, he's just a stupid boy, in love with a rude brat, making love like everyone told them they weren't ever going to be capable of. against all odds, here they are, pleasure scorching up murphy's spine and kavinsky fucks into him, his fingers twisting up with the others' tight and needy, remembering what it is to truly cherish someone.

he is soft between all his iron bones and sharp edges. all that resilience and survival talk and ruthless strategy. behind shooting enemies in the head for keeping them from alerting reinforcements, behind leaving a friend to kill herself because it's the peaceful end she wants, behind leaving people you respect and care about to die because they did something stupid that'll get you all killed. he's soft between all that, and he always has been, and it means death at home if any of the enemies he'd looked dead in the eyes with apathy there knew the truth of it.

but kavinsky won't even be that, he tells himself, as his hips push back wanton, and he moans out his name against the bedsheets, writhing under him with cock leaking between his legs. this is trust between them, a thing so rarely offered from this savage, violent boy. ]

Don't tell anyone.

Why would I tell an--yone?

[so they're doing it doggy-style. who doesn't love doggy-style? there's probably something to be said for staring into your lover's face and admiring the stars melted in their eyewater and the profundity of a mid-fuck pout, but also, there's a grace in the supplication of murphy's bowed spine that kavinsky finds equally inspiring. he hadn't known that he was capable of missing anyone as badly as he'd missed murphy.

his arm winds up wrapped around murphy's neck. elbow-down, loose, because he doesn't want to part from the other boy's skin or the centers of their balance locked tight, he doesn't want to get far enough to draw a noose proper tight. and he wouldn't anyway, sensing— on some level the frisson of nerves that have gone through his post-apocalyptic boyfriend the other times he's even courted that action. but it's unmistakably possessive. something like a yoke, a little like clinging. maybe less of a jackal, and more as cats bite down on each other in the stewy mess of heat.

and it means his mouth is at murphy's ear when he says,] It's mine.

[there are a dozen other ways he might have rounded off the glibe exchange. who would believe me? it's just a asshole. if that's a fucking metaphor, that'd be worse. maybe that's how he would've punchlined it once before. but these days, murphy's secrets are his. he wouldn't give them them away unconsidered, whether they're about butts or not.]

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increasingly loudly screaming

🐻🐻🐻🐻🐻

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cw: suicidal ideation

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