#(I have no proof but the rods screwed into my back give me anything its the power to diagnose ((and cool scars))

[feraltwinkseb]

May 1, 1996 - Monaco Source: Jacques Lange/Paris Match via Getty Images

[stillebesat]

Wanted

Sanders Sides: Remus, Roman, Logan, Janus  Blurb: Remus knew one thing for sure. No one would ever want to Want him.  Inspiration: from This Post by @recipe-for-thomathy  Fic Type: Hurt/Comfort, Medieval!AU  Warnings: Fire (mention), Throwing things, Breaking things, Captivity/Slavery, Weapons Taglist in reblog. 

The door slammed open with far more force than even Remus was willing to use on it. Mostly because he knew from past experience how difficult it was to rehang that door after striping out the screws in the wood and snapping the hinges more than once.

“What did you do?!” Roman demanded, striding into his work space in his full regalia of King’s Guard. 

Huh. Come straight from the palace? That was different. Remus smirked, keeping his attention on the furnace in front of him, slowly spinning the rod and its molten glass load within to keep it from dripping. “Do?” He shifted his feet to get a better angle, the iron chain around his ankle that kept him from wandering away from the shop clinking softly as he moved. “Plenty I suppose.” 

It was him they were talking about, but to his credit he’d actually been pretty productive today instead of destructive. “Made six vases just this morn--”

Roman took out a scroll, letting it fall open. “You’re on a WANTED poster!” 

His heart skipped a beat at that, though thankfully, Remus didn’t drop the rod. He actually liked the neon green glow the glass was giving off this time. Maybe he could use it to create something far more interesting than a boring stagnant flower holder. Maybe he could make another pair of---no. It would be best to stay with creating the same old same old for a few more days at least. No need to draw any attention to himself.  

Remus drew in a shaky breath he hoped his twin didn’t notice as he glanced to the poster held in his brother’s hands.  

It would be best to not think about what he’d done last night. 

A once in a lifetime opportunity. 

A breath of freedom. 

A dream come true. 

His one and only Cinderella moment where it had felt so right to do what he did. 

Like he’d finally found his calling in life.

And if Remus had any dignity or common sense left he’d stomp down on that siren call and wouldn’t seek to draw any further attention or be anything more than a boring humble glassblower’s apprentice from here on out or he was sure his heart would actually shatter if he ever saw that particular smile again. That particular spark in the eye. That-.  

Remus pasted a smirk on his face, forcing the memory away. 

A dream should remain a dream. 

He raised an eyebrow at the figure on the paper as he pulled the rod out of the furnace. “Ehhhh. That’s not me.” He said, moving to the bench so that he could grab a block to continue shaping the glass. 

If it weren’t for the moustache -drawn a little larger than the little bit of hair he currently had on his upper lip thanks to a small accident with fire earlier in the week, Remus would have thought it was a portrait of Roman since the figure’s hair lacked the tell tale silver streak that marked him as an evil twin.  

No. Roman was the one with the muscles. The one with the handsome smile. With the knighthood. With his star rising insomuch that even foreign dignitaries were falling over themselves to stay in his good graces.

Remus...was just…himself. Stringy hair, crooked smile, multiple scars criss-crossing his entire body from previous beatings and accidents in the forge. Who only had enough strength in his limbs to work glass instead of far more durable, sturdy, and useful materials like wood or iron. 

After all, Glasswork was quite the useless skill when they were in the middle of a war with the neighboring country and needed blacksmiths to create more weapons rather than glassblowers to make pretty cups for parties.

No. Remus let out a slow breath, placing the block back as he returned to the furnace to ensure his current project didn’t harden before he was finished. 

There was a reason why the silver streak had marked him instead of his twin as the evil one. The bad guy. The one who could do no good despite the very obvious proof that Remus could accomplish some good or else no one would be buying the glass objects he created. 

No one seemed to mind that he’d been marked as evil so long as he didn’t go too crazy in front of the patrons when they came to get their stupid little paperweights, flower vases, dinnerware, and sun orbs.

Of course the cursed chain around his foot did a lot to assuage any of their fears of him running rampant. 

If only they knew just what he had done last night. Just where he’d gone. How he’d freed himself from the stupid chain for a few hours to bring--to bring---a gift….to---

“Not--” Roman took a step forward, armor clanking. “It looks JUST LIKE YOU!” 

“Looks just like you too, or did your big fat egotistical head forget we’re identical?” Remus shot back.

Mostly identical. Even if he didn’t have the moustache, Remus was certain people wouldn’t ever mistake them for each other. As kids...probably, but he’d never know for sure since his--their mother chose to leave him out in the woods to die and be found by slavers instead of doing the sensible thing and dropping him off at the orphanage with all the other rejected evil halfs. 

Roman had only been a thorn in his life for the past six months or so after stumbling into the shop while breaking up a brawl that had started at the pub up the street. That was hardly enough time for them to even begin to get to know each other, let alone their quirks. 

Even then, with their on and off brief interactions, Remus knew that Roman only kept coming to see him more out of a morbid fascination of how his life could have been different if he’d been the one born with the silver in his hair rather than wanting to form a genuine familial connection with his long lost twin.

Roman scoffed, resting a hand on his sword. “You know it can’t be of me! I know better than to risk interrupting the peace talks going on at the palace!” 

Remus rolled his eyes, returning to the bench. Peace talks. A freaking ball was now considered a part of those never ending peace talks? They might as well parade the visiting Prince and his entourage around the streets again every day for a month instead for all the good those peace talks were doing. 

At least the foreign Prince was someone different to look at when he did come through town.

And…despite the rather accurate portrayal...Remus couldn’t see why a Wanted poster would be created for him. It wasn’t like he’d hurt anyone. It wasn’t like anyone knew who he was. Not when he’d come in disguise! He hadn’t even talked to anyone beyond---and that was only to explain his--the...gift. 

Unless showing someone how they could see far more clearly was now a crime. No. Remus had had his moment to shine and then he’d returned to the forge like a good obedient mutt to his hovel and destroyed the evidence--most of the evidence--without anyone being the wiser.

“Remus. I know--”

 “No you don’t!” He snapped. “For all you know, maybe we have a third twin brother running around because why would you think it would be me on that Wanted poster, Oh Highly Favored of the King, when I obviously can’t go anywhere?” Remus purposely kicked his foot so the chain trapping him in this place rattled, the sound echoing through the air as he picked up his second favorite tweezers in a shaking hand. 

Not that he intended to use it. No. Not now.

Wanted. 

His brother had managed to...emotionally compromise him and that wasn’t good for working with glass. No it was only for destroying it. A pity. He truly had liked the color on this one.

Remus kept his head down, acting like he was still working as he rolled the pipe back and forth to keep the shape intact. “When, unlike a certain free born goody-two-shoes, I’ve never been wanted in my entire life?”

The Master Glassblower didn’t even want him. Remus had only ever been considered a tool to be used until it wore out. A slave brought in to be worked to death and only taught glass blowing because the greedy old miser wanted more product on his shelves and had to admit as he aged that he couldn’t keep up with demand nor stay near the heat of the forge for as long anymore.

Lucky him, Remus had actually shown a talent for the craft. He could only imagine the sloppy blobs that would be on the shelves now if the Glassblower had bought any of the other slaves on the auction block. 

So long as it meant more gold in his coffers the Master hardly cared whose work was selling. And when the war happened, he’d allowed Remus to keep the shop open while he was off aiding the war effort in the forges nearer the front lines. 

And with him left in charge of the shop...it meant that Remus had finally been able to create what he wanted to create. To experiment. No one was there to stop him. To tell him what to do. To care. 

“What do you mean you’re not wanted?” Roman took a step forward rolling up the poster. “I--”

Remus snarled, hurling the molten glass like a spear in his twin’s direction, watching as the glass on the pole shattered upon impact with the wall, before focusing on the way Roman had stilled, hand flashing to his sword, eyes wide.

Give him a break. He knew better than to throw something directly at his twin, not if he didn’t want to die on the spot for attacking the King’s own personal guard. 

He turned away, tossing the tweezers onto the bench. “If YOU wanted anything to do with me brother you wouldn’t have left me chained here when you first found me!” He clenched his hands as he crossed his arms, resisting the urge to continue destroying things. “You wouldn’t keep coming back to stare at me like I’m a freaking circus act while you pretend you want to get to know me. You. Don’t. You Never Did. So DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME THAT I’M WANTED.” 

No one had truly wanted to see him. Not even with that particular unbelievable encounter last night. It didn’t mean a thing and would never happen again. A shooting star only ever shown for a blink of an eye before going out. 

“Remus.”

Roman had no right to sound so--soo pitying!! If he’d wanted to change things he could have. But he hadn’t. 

“No need to rub it in Mr. Perfect. I know I’m not wanted. How could I ever forget when Evil Twin has been my label my entire life?! So take your stupid Wanted poster and Get. OUT.”  

Get out before he lost the remaining shreds of his self control and actually hurt him. 

The door behind him creaked as it slowly opened. 

“Remus, please. You have to know that wasn’t--”

So Roman did want to see the forge destroyed today. Fine. FINE. He snatched up another rod with a snarl and whirled only to drop to his knees, rod clattering to the ground as he pressed his face into the dirt, heart pounding harder than a hammer to an anvil in his chest upon seeing just who was standing behind his brother.

In retrospect the uniform should have clued him in that his twin hadn’t come for a social visit. Or alone. 

“Ah.” Roman cleared his throat. “My High King Janus. Visiting Prince Logan.” He said formally. “May I present to you...my twin brother, Remus, apprentice glassblower to Apollos, a Master Glassblower who has gone to the front lines to assist the other Smiths there.”  

Remus closed his eyes, pressing his lips tightly together. He was so screwed. No wonder the portrait in the poster had been so accurate despite his disguise. The High King could see deceptions around him as easily as a bird could fly. Of course he’d see an evil twin in disguise and keep an eye on him. Especially after what he’d done--but Remus had been sure he’d escaped notice right after---after----

And to have the Prince--Prince Logan...right here...in his shop---he hadn’t expected to ever see those glorious green eyes again, let alone see the Prince still wearing the glasses that Remus had created and gone to the palace to give him last night.

“So.” 

Remus flinched as footsteps approached him, the silky voice of the High King ringing in his ears. 

“This is our little forge rat who disrupted the ball last night?” 

Disrupted?! Remus fought back the protest rising in his throat, fingers digging into the dirt. Sure he’d stolen the Prince away for a moment to ensure the glasses properly fit. That the Prince could see through them. But he hadn’t disr--He’d been very careful to be good! Even created a fashionable enough garment with colored glass in order to blend in with all the nobles decked out in gemstones so large and heavy it was a wonder the richies could move at all. 

He jumped as warm fingers trailed down his cheek. 

“I would hardly say he was disruptive.” Prince Logan remarked as he lifted up his chin, the corner of his mouth twitching when he met Remus’s eyes, his own no longer narrowed in a squint but wide open with wonder as he traced the lines of his jaw. “Nor would I say that you’re not wanted either, Remus.”  

Remus gulped, heart pounding even harder in his chest. It wasn’t fair how his name on the Prince’s lips made fuzzy embers spark in his chest.  

Logan gently tilted his head back, his thumb running along Remus’s moustache. “There was a reason why I stayed up all night with the royal painter to ensure that your portrait was accurate. And that was so I could find you as soon as possible. But I see,” His green eyes sparked with delight, his other hand raising to adjust the thin wire frames sitting on his nose. “That I was not quite as accurate as I wanted to be, but I suppose that can be forgiven considering my distraction at how clear the world has now become for me thanks to you.”

“You are certain.” High King Janus asked, hands hidden in his gold silk robes, head tilting to study Remus like a hawk studies a mouse as Roman came to stand beside him. “That he is the one you seek, Prince Logan? That he is the one who gave you...sight?” 

“He is.” The Prince confirmed without hesitation. 

The High King raised an eyebrow. “I find it hard to...believe that one born with silver in their hair could be--”

“Remus is the best glassblower I’ve ever encountered, my King.” Roman said, raising his chin as the High King turned to him, unafraid to look him in the eye. “If anyone were to create the ability to see from blown glass, it would be him.”

More fuzzy embers fizzled around Remus’s stomach as he side eyed his brother. Roman...actually thought he was good? At glassblowing? He’d never said anything before--

High King Janus hummed, waiting until Roman broke eye contact before again returning his eagle stare on Remus, golden eyes glinting in the light of the forge. “Considering your own skills, Sir Roman, I would be unsurprised that your other half would be just as creative in his own right. Even more so if he is to be the bridge that finally brings peace to our kingdoms.” 

Remus blinked, fidgeting in place, his fingers digging into the dirt so he wouldn’t try and touch the Prince because he liked his hands too much to lose them. “Bridge?” He asked before he could also tell his tongue that talking was a very good way to get it removed with a hot poker. “What bridge? I can’t--” Surely they didn’t expect him to build a bridge from glass! How would that even work to bring peace? The thing would shatter with one wrong strike of a horse’s hooves! 

Logan smiled. “You can, Remus.” He said before gesturing for Roman to come forward. “Free him.” He commanded.

Surprisingly, his twin didn’t hesitate, quickly moving forward with his sword drawn as he focused on the chain around Remus’s ankle. 

It really wasn’t fair to hear his name spoken like that! Like he--like the Prince actually cared about him. 

Remus fought to hold still, to not look away from Prince Logan’s forest filled eyes to see what his twin was doing with the lock and if it was the same method he himself had used last night to free himself.

“I want you to come with me.” Prince Logan said softly, stroking Remus’s cheek as he maintained eye contact. “To my kingdom. Let me show you how much we want you there. Need you. Your gift with glass, there are so many of us, so many who would fall to your feet to see as you’ve shown me to see. Come with me, Remus.” He dropped his hands again to Remus’s dirty ones, squeezing them gently. “And I will guarantee that you will not regret it.”

Remus made a noise of disbelief, frozen in place, unable to comprehend that these...that the Prince---No one wanted to be around an evil twin!

And yet.

Prince Logan had yet to draw away or show disgust or revulsion upon discovering that he was the evil half.

“If you go with him, the war will stop.” High King Janus intoned. “Both sides will withdraw. Peace will finally be reestablished in both lands.” 

The war would stop? Over him? It didn’t--

Remus drew in a shaky breath as the chain around his ankle that had been his constant companion the last four years fell away with a soft clank for the second time in the past twenty-four hours as Roman took a step back with a faint smile his eyes shimmering with--was his twin actually about to cry? Over him?!  

“But you--you don’t even know me.” Remus whispered as the Prince pulled him to his feet, guiding him outside to the waiting royal carriage. To--to dare he say it? To freedom if he so chose to take it.

“No.” Prince Logan agreed, giving him another smile as he once more adjusted his glasses, the lens flashing in the sunlight. “But I want to.”

[zenonaa]

Read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365729 Comments: i really wanted to write my own version of this happening!

***

Though books filled every shelf and unit in Hope’s Peak’s library to their limits, the variety - or more specifically, lack of - left a lot to be desired. An inspection of the stock in the main area took Byakuya approximately five minutes. It consisted mostly of textbooks, sprinkled with books on rather specific topics such as histories of torture, biographies of infamous serial killers and detective novels, most likely to provide inspiration.

Their captor, Monobear, presumably slotted in those last books more recently, because a heavier film of dust covered the textbooks than them. The room smelled musty, of aged ink and sweat, and it lacked any windows. On one hand, the dust made sense considering the letter a group of them discovered in the library claimed the school stopped functioning as an educational facility a long time ago. If it ceased operating as such, then the books could do nothing but gather dust. That, however, didn’t explain what happened, or what could happen, to shut down one of the most prestigious academies in not just the country, but in the whole world.

The mystery dangled over their heads, a hook that glinted in the darkness surrounding them, and Byakuya vowed to uncover who wielded the fishing rod.

Byakuya flipped to the next page in the black folder he cradled in his hands, seated at a desk in the library, one leg crossed over the other. A cup of coffee exhaled steam beside him, sitting next to a lamp obtained from the storage room. Particles of dust floated in the beam of light. Dim lighting dampened the room, so without the lamp, he would have struggled to read for too long without straining his eyes. Occasionally, he shifted, reaching for his cup to take a swig from it, and he was halfway through it when he noticed a humanoid shadow across the room.

He suspended his coffee by his lips, with its nutty aroma filling his nostrils, and didn’t even need two guesses to ascertain the intruder’s identity. By now, the class had silently established the library as Byakuya’s second dwelling, a decision that he welcomed. The less time he had to be near any of them, the better. As a consequence, the only times anyone else ventured in was when Makoto attempted to get to know him better, which Byakuya scoffed at, and when a certain other individual slipped inside to ogle him from a distance.

A pair of eyes bore into Byakuya. Her head poked out from behind a bookcase as she watched him read. Watched him exist. Byakuya had tolerated it up to this point but now furrowed his brow. With every second that passed, the itching beneath his skin worsened, like bugs crawling in him. He set down his cup with a grimace.

“Oi.” His voice barked like a heavy book slamming down on a table. The shadowy figure jumped. “I know you’re there... Get out.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she shuffled out. Indeed, the person was Touko Fukawa, one of his classmates. Her burgundy braids hung down her back, stray hairs sticking out where they had escaped from their restraints. She took a couple of steps before stopping, biting her lip as she clenched her fists low down in front of her.

Byakuya returned his gaze to the folder in his possession and pushed up his glasses with one hand. A few seconds elapsed, and he still hadn’t heard any more footsteps. 

He wrinkled his nose.

“Do I have to spell it out for you? Get out,” he snapped without glancing up. “Leave the room.”

“Togami-kun,” said Touko in a hushed tone, still there. Still in the room.

Monochrome faces stared up at Byakuya from the pages within the folder. Accompanying each photograph of an individual were several photographs of their corpse, all upright, crucified with scissors against a message written in blood behind them.

Bloodstain fever.

When he lifted his head, they were as pale as Touko.

Byakuya glared at her. “Why are you still here?”

“I...” Touko stared at him, wide-eyed, and Byakuya’s breathing faltered. She trembled. It wasn’t cold, and she wasn’t smiling. “Can... I ask you something?”

He opened his mouth. Should have told her to scram. Should have not peered back at her, his lips faintly pursed, eyebrows arched.

“What is it?” he shouldn’t have asked, but did.

Touko shuddered as she straightened, but her shoulders sank almost immediately after. She wrapped her arms around herself and said, “You know Genocider Syo?”

Of course he did. He held their casefile in his hand right now and spent many hours researching them. Touko shifted her weight between feet, her features screwed up slightly like she tasted something bitter. Her lips quivered.

“The others wondered if that murderer... that monster... was in the school,” she started.

Byakuya sat up taller, frowning, and she trailed off. He didn’t reply right away, eyeing her.

“I see... you’re worried that he will kill you,” said Byakuya, and he tilted his head. Light flashed across his lenses. “Don’t be. I can say with utmost confidence that that killer isn’t here. According to his criminal profile, he is most likely a student. A student wouldn’t be able to orchestrate all this. Hope’s Peak couldn’t be shut down and repurposed by an ordinary student...”

“No!” Touko blurted, and he jerked his head back. Her eyes continued to fix on him. “It’s not that. That person... They’re in the school right now. I know this for a fact.”

“What?” He must have misheard. Or, more likely, she was mistaken. Paranoid. “What evidence do you have?”

Very slowly, she elevated a hand and then turned it to point at herself. 

“... because she’s inside of me,” stated Touko.

He stiffened. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t grin. Light shimmered in her eyes, against a dull, pale background as hard and smooth as marble. And Byakuya stared, stared at her.

“... What did you say?” he murmured. 

“We... We share a body,” explained Touko, shivering. Each word had to be dragged out. Pain ripped through her face as gates locked shut for so many years finally opened. “She was created when I was younger... created from an accumulation of abuse and pressure... We communicated via post-it notes at the beginning... I know every victim... I’ve woken up at crime scenes...”

That explained why the crime scenes showed signs of agitation. That explained a lot. A hell of a lot. Byakuya opened his mouth, even inhaled, but he didn’t say anything. When he didn’t, she did instead.

“And... each day I fear... she will come out and strike again.” Touko scrunched her face and thumped herself over her heart. Clutched her blouse. Sobs lodged in her throat, and every time they did, her shoulders heaved. Her other hand tugged on her hair. “And that... that she will kill again, and in this awful place, where murder is encouraged... every night is Russian Roulette. Blood triggers me, and I nearly switched after Kuwata’s death... It’s only a matter of time now. I don’t want her to kill anyone again. I don’t want to die. But most importantly...”

Her breath shook.

“... I don’t want her to kill you!”

The room held its breath, hushed and strangled. Its pressure coiled around his neck. His heart raced, and he couldn’t look away from the small frame of the girl in front of him. An assertion like that ought to have needed more proof, but before he could ask, or even think to ask, she bent over and hiked up her skirt.

On her left thigh, a tally of scars. He counted. They matched the victim count. Then he drew his eyes over to her right thigh. His eyebrows climbed. On it, she wore a leather holster, and very clearly he could see customised scissors that he had only seen in photographs... along with a set he purchased on the black market.

Byakuya rose off his chair and walked forward with a hand extended. Once he arrived in front of her, he pulled a pair of her scissors out of the holster and raised the silver instrument to eye level. They were hers. Custom, uniquely shaped with curved finger rests and other protrusions. They were undoubtedly Genocider Syo’s.

His eyes flickered. He felt a chill. He actually felt a chill that hit his core.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, with his eyes trained on the scissors.

“With your help... I can try to keep her inside,” Touko said. She stepped closer. Byakuya didn’t move. “If I can’t abolish her, I can at least stop her.”

He forced his gaze upward. His tone remained guarded. “Where do I come into all this?”

“If I can... be with you... I can stop her.” Touko squared her shoulders. Anguish still cracked her face, but her eyes drilled into him, hard and fierce. “You can give me the strength to stop her. I just need you to promise me you won’t tell... and that you’ll help me.”

Byakuya blinked. His brow creased. Time ticked past.

“... Alright,” he said as he looked down. She exhaled loudly.

“As long as we’re in this place, no matter what happens, I won’t let Genocider Syo kill again,” promised Touko. “T-Thank you, Togami-kun...!”

“... Leave.”

Touko bowed, then rushed out. Byakuya stayed standing where he was, and a good while passed after she left before he set the folder onto the nearest desk. The folder containing the case file of the murderer he had just spoken to. Who told him her secret, and who knew he knew it.

He gritted his teeth. Her selfishness had put a timer on his head. It was only a matter of time before the murderer sought him out to silence him... and who would everyone believe if he revealed it to everyone over breakfast? That this girl’s alter was a serial killer? Would they believe a timid, stuttering girl who fainted at the sight of blood or a cold heir who announced he would win this killing game? 

Perhaps he could reveal her scissors. No... she wouldn’t have them on her now he knew about them, and the others would consider him a pervert if he tried. 

Having to live with a secret like that, and with what had created Genocider Syo, no wonder her personality turned dark.

Ever since he discovered the case years ago, he yearned to uncover the killer. He studied them, and when he arrived at this school and stumbled upon their case file, a fire reignited in his chest, bright, intense.

And right now, that flame billowed inside of him.

Now the game had become interesting.

Byakuya crossed the library and returned the case file to the storage room. Until the right time came, he would have to keep her secret. Keep her promise. 

His eyes lingered on the casefile. Touko claimed to be able to stop Genocider Syo if he was with her... did she think he was a love interest in a romance novel, able to fix everything and dot it with a happy ever after? Did Touko think her pathetic crush on him would be powerful enough to suppress Genocider Syo? Her crush on someone she had only known for a few weeks, not months, or years. It wasn’t like they attended school here together. She seemed to believe ‘love’ would make her strong enough, when in reality, it would cause weakness.

Was it weakness that made her confide in him... or strength?

It had to be weakness.

Life taught him love would always lead to weakness.

He put the casefile away, and as he left the library, he couldn’t help but smirk as his mind drifted back to Touko. Her eyes glinted like a hook in the darkness. Or, more appropriately, like a pair of scissors.

Touko Fukawa... was a very interesting girl.

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 13

Hiccup is....so stupid guys, so dumb.  A moron.  An idiot.  

Ao3

It’s not the season for frozen yogurt. Astrid’s heat is still on, finally keeping the fog from spreading icy fingers up her windowpane at night. She’s still wearing fuzzy socks around her apartment to keep her corresponding heating bill down, and so she shouldn’t be disappointed that there was no frozen yogurt. Especially when there are bigger things to worry about.

Of course it’s all wrapped up in Grimborn, like everything is lately. She knows Hiccup said no Grimborn, that they’d talk about other things, but untangling it seems dangerous, like pulling a seedling from dirt too early.  

The first knock blends in with the drums in the single headphone she’s wearing but the second is out of tune and she sits up straight, yanking the earbud out by the cord. She’s not scared, she’s just aware that she lives alone at a historical murder site potentially being targeted by a potential copycat murderer.

The third knock is quieter, an almost hopeful tap-tap-tap, and she freezes.

What kind of murderer knocks?

Definitely not someone so rigorously loyal to Viggo Grimborn’s techniques, which her current paper’s research has tangentially confirmed to unanimously be surprise attacks. But techniques change.

Including victim’s techniques, she thinks to herself as she walks quietly to the door, grabbing her umbrella from the plastic hook by her coat. Stabbing would be deadlier but she’d have more force with a swing and she chokes up just above the curved handle to look through the peephole.

It’s Hiccup, chewing on his lip, nose blown out of proportion by the curved glass.

“Shit,” she tosses the umbrella aside and pulls her bangs out of their clip before adjusting the oversized tee-shirt that feels suddenly inadequate. Softer than she’s sure she can be without quiet stacks or heavy brick walls to dampen it. She told him that she likes him and that introduces enough vulnerability on its own without trying to change the subject between them.  

She checks the time and he knocks again, even softer this time, like he’s giving up.

“What?” Astrid’s voice comes out too harsh as she yanks open the door, frazzled like a hastily thrown umbrella.

“Hi,” he raises his eyebrows and looks her up and down, inquisitive and pale, a plastic bag in his hand. “Am I interrupting something or—ah shit, it’s late, isn’t it?” He checks the time on his phone, “is it? I forget—“

“No, I mean it is late, but it’s fine,” she tries to flatten her bangs and it doesn’t quite work, and his lips quirk up in a maddeningly personal smile. He looks tired. “Just working on a paper, what’s up? How was…”

His text made her snort and she still feels guilty about it. Guilty for laughing at something so clearly not funny and strange because it made her miss him in a way she didn’t expect. She wanted to see his face when he sent it instead of hearing it second hand, wanted to see his wide-eyed processing, but it doesn’t look like he’s processed it at all.

He shrugs, “I brought you something.”

“That bad, huh?” Her dry laugh makes his lip quiver and he steps forward too purposefully to be abrupt, wrapping wiry arms around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest. The plastic bag crinkles against her hip and he rests his cheek against her temple. He takes a deep breath like he’s centering himself, hand curling in her shirt.

“Sorry, I didn’t—” His voice is a little thick and she moves instinctually, arms curling around him, one hand almost daring to stroke his lower back. He’s a sturdy kind of fragile, asking directly for and taking what he needs, and she doesn’t want to disturb it. She doesn’t know him well enough for that yet.

“No, it’s fine,” she rests her forehead on his shoulder, wishing he hadn’t done this in the hallway where she feels invisible eyes on her door, “Snotlout with self-tanning lotion, huh? I can imagine the trauma.”

“You have no idea,” he exhales, cool breath ruffling her hair as he steps back, pulling the bag between them and opening it by both handles. “But I got you something.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” she reaches down and pulls out a plastic wrapped square of folded cloth.

“I did though,” he grabs something else he apparently left leaning against the wall and hands it to her. “You asked for this.”

“A curtain rod?” It’s a better weapon than an umbrella, she guesses, “why did you get me a curtain rod?”

“Because I’m starting up tours again,” he pulls a drill out of the bag and pulls the trigger, making it spin with an excited, approval-seeking smile. “Sound-proof curtains. Or not soundproof, sound-blocking. Your idea, and not a bad one—“

“Get in here,” she grabs the collar of his tee-shirt and pulls him inside enough to shut the door behind them.

“I saw your uh, single chair,” he spins slowly, looking around her place and taking it in the way he does archive aisles, “was red, so I got red curtains, but—“

“You’re starting tours again?” She ducks down to meet his eye when he starts tinkering with his drill instead of looking at her, “you realize that’s…”

“A way to pay my bills?” His smile is a grimace.

“A really stupid idea, right?”

“The curtains are 84 inches,” he strides uneven across her living room and reaches above her window, notching the drywall with his thumbnail, “so if the rod is right around here—“

“Hiccup.”

“The selection of curtain rods in stores open this time of night was…odd, half of them looked like—“ he’s bright red when he glances up at her, “well, not particularly ornamental, so I went generic. This will take five minutes,” he holds his hand out for the curtain rod and she sighs.

“This is sweet, or something,” she’s worried and tired and hates how she’s obviously getting in the way of the one thing he’s thought of to feel better about his own situation. And it is sweet, and combined with his hopeful expression and capable hand around his power tool, it’s hard to say no. “But I’m never going to get my security deposit back if you drill into the wall.”

“Oh, I talked to Gobber,” he assures her, marking the other side above the window and frowning to himself, hand on his chin, “I forgot my level—“

“Hiccup, you can’t restart tours,” she gets close enough to grab his shoulder, but his face stays focused on the window until she moves her hand to his cheek to turn his head. His eyes don’t follow and she snaps, “look at me.”

“Five minutes,” he nods, finally looking at her with fleeting focus, “Gobber said it was fine.”

His jaw flexes against her palm and she presses her thumb against his lips to shush him.

“If you’re installing curtains, will you talk to me about this?” She moves her thumb, trying to ignore the tingling flair in her stomach.

He nods and she lets him go, crossing her arms and watching him take the curtain rod out of the package, throwing the instructions over his shoulder and examining the small bag of hardware that came with it.

“You good with that height?” He revs the drill again as he turns around and holds a screw against the drywall.

“Sure,” she couldn’t care less about the curtains, “so, what—“

“Ok,” he talks over the drill as he seats the screw, “so I know I said no Grimborn, and I meant it, as in we don’t always have to talk about Grimborn. I want to talk to you about other things—“

“It’s fine.”

He looks over his shoulder at her, holding a screw in his mouth and managing a muffled sound that she thinks is supposed to be, “really?”

“I don’t have anyone else to talk about it with,” she shrugs, “and since it’s your fault that I care at all…”

He takes the screw out of his mouth and mounts it on the opposite side of the window, “my fault, huh?”

His tone reminds her of the other things she’s blamed him for, most notably knocking encyclopedias off of the archive shelf. He took that blame easily, but it was probably softened. He’s not sexy now, he’s frazzled and trying and obviously exhausted, but she wonders what would happen if she said it anyway. Then again, everything he said at Gruffnut’s bar when he was being as awkward as physically possible makes her think he’s not particularly interested in her apartment as anything other than a pit stop on a Grimborn tour.

But here he is putting up curtains so it isn’t anymore…

“Absolutely your fault. If you hadn’t been so annoying with your tours that I wanted to demolish the mystery, I would have learned to hate Grimborn just how Fishlegs did, by dealing with a constant onslaught of weirdos come to attempt to steal papers.”

“Well, I’m selfishly glad that didn’t happen,” he takes some hardware from the curtain rod box and hangs it over the screws, lining up another screw to anchor it into place, “but I still…I’m going to sound crazy—“

“I’m used to it,” she shrugs and he gauges her expression before drilling in what she thinks is the last screw.

“You mentioned the Ryker theory to me, you know, back in the days when I only got to talk to you if I annoyed you enough that you leaned out your window to yell at me,” he nudges her with his elbow on the way back to the bag, where he starts unwrapping the curtains themselves. “How much do you know?”

“He was a cop tangentially involved with the case,” she takes the trash from the curtains from him before he can throw it on the floor and walks it to the trashcan. “If I remember right, he spent some time in custody for the murders but was then found not guilty.”

“The umm, the evidence,” he gestures at his feet—foot—and bites his lip like he’s unsure he can trust her with what he’s about to say.

“Yeah?”

“It was sent to Snotlout, addressed to him with a middle initial, and he doesn’t tell anyone his middle name because he hates it—which he’s one to talk but—“

“Do you think whoever’s doing this is trying to make it look like it has something to do with Snotlout?”

“You know the Ryker finger, right?” He shakes the first curtain pane out and sets it on the back of her chair to take off his jacket. She doesn’t think she’s seen his arms before, and her eyes dart between faded freckles, tracing over lean muscles that attest to wild gesticulation as a viable workout routine.

“It came with a note,” she nods as he pulls out the other curtain pane and bites his lip, uncharacteristically quiet at her admission of Grimborn knowledge. “What?”

“I told you this package did too,” he busies himself with unfolding, “well, umm, I took a picture of it—“

“You took a picture of it?” She’s too loud and she wishes for the first time that he’d hurry up with the sound insulation. “Are you crazy? You took a picture of a…a foot that someone sent to—“

“No, no, not the foot. I avoided the foot, I just took one of the note. A few to make sure I got it, it was kind of…damp with—whatever, it was blurry, so I got a few,” he pulls out his phone and shakes his head, “I haven’t had time to look at them yet because Snotlout wanted to get a drink, understandably, but…well, it’s definitely Comic Sans. We’re clearly dealing with a sadistic lunatic.”

“We?” She tries once again, just as futilely to tame her hair, and he shrugs, filling out the shoulders of his faded red tee-shirt better than she would have guessed, “so, sadistic lunatic, what was your first clue?”

“The murder and mutilation was a start but the font choice really drives it home,” he laughs and holds his phone out to her, “do you want to—“

“I thought you said you haven’t looked at it yet.” She’s seen him with new Grimborn information and the idea that he’d willingly let her see something first again is kind of flattering. Flattering enough that she struggles to squelch her growing curiosity with horror.

Apparently there really is a threshold, at some point horror can’t grow anymore and the surplus transitions into a call to action. And if there’s a Ryker finger allegory, what are the chances this is all a coincidence?

Hiccup’s face says more than statistics do.

“I trust your interpretation,” his eyes are too big, too trusting, and she gets that he’s nervous to read it but even more nervous to admit to it, “or I guess I trust you to have an interpretation I can argue with.”

“Sure,” she takes his phone and sits down in her chair, “I’ll have a look while you finish up.”

“Thanks,” his crooked grin is relieved and brighter than he’s been since he got here. Relieved even.

“No problem,” she squints at the blurry but clearly Comic Sans letters and tries to ignore the reddish smudges on the bottom right of the screen, jumping when Hiccup’s warm hand lands gently on her shoulder. “What?”

“Sorry, you’re just sitting against the um,” he tugs at the new curtain and she leans forward.

“Oh, I guess it really does match the chair then,” she clears her throat, trying to ignore the heat rising to her face as his thumb brushes the side of her neck, “good eye.”

“I’m glad you don’t hate it,” he laughs, “it did feel a little weird decorating your apartment for you, so really, if you hate them I can—“

“They’re fine,” she insists, sighing in twisted relief when the warmth of his hand disappears and he’s back across the room messing with the curtains.

She breaks the cardinal rule of looking at pictures on other people’s phones and swipes to the next picture, quickly zooming in on just the note before she can see anything else. This one is clearer, the blur from the damp paper instead of the camera moving and she holds his phone closer decipher the words:

A shiver runs down her spine as she reads it through a few times, trying to make sense of words that are almost right. The capitalization and strange cadence read like a Grimborn letter but the ‘lol’ sets it apart as modern. New. Ongoing.

“So, what do we have here?” Hiccup’s voice appears suddenly in her ear, his arms folded on the back of the chair, forearm pressing her braid against the back of her neck.

“A…really creepy note,” she leans into him instead of away, both irritated that he brought her into this and glad he didn’t have to do it alone.

“Here,” he kneels behind the her, chin nearly touching her shoulder as he cranes his neck forward to read the blurry text. His lips move along with what he’s reading, brows knitting together in a deep frown. Even as he’s pale and still, his arm is warm on the back of her chair and she looks at him to avoid looking at the note anymore. His jaw muscle twitches and she remembers kissing him, as out of place as laughing at his text. “That’s…a modern Ryker letter, isn’t it? I guess Comic Sans is the new misspelling due to lack of education.” He jokes but it falls flat against his pale face and sharp, serious expression.

He looks for her opinion, too close to look that deep into her eyes, gaze darting up to her messed up hair and down to her shirt, pausing to read the words on it. It’s from a national park in her hometown and she clears her throat, trying not to think about the note and how she can see a day or two’s worth of stubble on his chin when he’s this close. About how he’s warm and honest and this is the first time they’ve ever been truly, absolutely alone.

“I agree,” her voice is smaller than she expects and she clears her throat, “but it has the misspelling too. The All Right,” she points to the text on his screen and he reaches over her shoulder to grab his phone back.

“Well, it was a right foot,” he swallows hard and weighs the fact, or maybe the fact that he said it so frankly, his arm shifting against the back of her neck. If he feels her goosebumps, he doesn’t say anything. “Thanks for looking at that for me.”

“With you,” she acquiesces, “you just gave me a head start.”

“Still, I—really, sanity check, but looking at Snotlout getting that note, objectively…” He wants to be wrong and it’s not something Astrid is used to, “it looks a little Ryker, doesn’t it? Especially with the fact I keep finding the bodies, it’s like someone knows Snotlout will show up right away.”

“Isn’t that another reason it’s stupid for you restart tours?”

“I told you I’d probably do something stupid if this got worse,” he snorts, “plus, the charming Mr. Grisly has apparently hired Heather as the expert consultant on the case and I just…I know how she’ll twist things, I—someone has to keep putting the truth out there in its full, unglamorous glory.” He scrubs his hand over his tired face, “anyway, what do you think?”

“I don’t see how giving historically accurate Grimborn tours could help anything,” she looks at him, letting her temple lean on his forearm, “but I get that you can’t sit there and do nothing and that’s…commendable.”

“I was actually asking what you thought of the curtains,” he tries to tuck an unruly lock of her bangs behind her ear and her heart stutters at the gentle drag of his fingertips. Her hair doesn’t stay where he put it and the corner of his lips twitches, fascinated and endeared at her expense.

“They’re fine.” She doesn’t look at them, too focused on the way Hiccup’s hand curls around the back of her neck and pulls her in halfway.  

He opens his mouth to say something else, but she doesn’t give him the chance, turning partially in the chair to kiss him. He hums against her lips, not shocked this time but content, wound down from the twitchy mess he was earlier. Tired in a way that goes too well with her pajamas and the quiet room, comfortable even as he strokes the side of her neck with his thumb and deepens the kiss.

Despite the unexpected and hectic drama of the last couple of months, Astrid hasn’t regretted anything about her move or even choice of apartment, especially considering that it brought Hiccup to her. But right now? Right now she wishes she’d put up a far bigger fight about taking the couch, because she wants nothing more than to pull Hiccup closer, but there’s no room.

And they’re alone.

“You are going to have to look at the curtains,” he breaks the kiss just long enough move around the chair and kneel in front of it.

“Sure,” she wraps one heel around the back of his legs, knees on either side of his hips. His shoulders are sharper without his usual layers, his arms flexing under her grip when she guides his hands to her sides, “they look fine.”

“You know, I hate to ask,” his touch is too cautious on her waist as he leans in to kiss the side of her neck, evidently distracted.

“Then don’t,” she pulls at his hair and he pauses, looking at her levelly even as he breathes too hard. “What?”

“You know this chair is approximately where the original apartment front door was,” his hand is on her hip, just under the hem of her shirt, jarringly warm against what he’s saying.

“Oh,” she swallows hard, the creepy note and everything Grimborn in her brain warring with her pounding heart and flushed face. Hiccup’s eyes are a similarly conflicted storm of overthinking emerald green and wide, hectic pupils.

“And I was just shoving my foot in my mouth at Gruff’s, that’s not—I mean your living room should be less drafty with the curtains but—“

“Do you want to move?” She points over her shoulder towards her bedroom and his eyes widen.

“You mean—I,” he clears his throat, hand sliding from under her shirt to a more innocent rest halfway down the outside of her thigh, “like to your bedroom?”

His panic is external and she does her best not to take it personally, letting go of his hips with her knees and rubbing his upper arm, half pat on the back and half awkward urgency to get out of her chair and move it across the room.

“You had a hell of a day, Hiccup, it’s fine—“

“What?” He laughs, scratching the back of his neck as his face turns bright red, nearly matching the new curtains she can see out of the corner of her eye, “no, it was a totally normal—we just don’t know each other very well, this is just a typical day for me. I’m used to um, all the police stations and serial killers and—“

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” she pushes frazzled bangs away from her forehead and tries not to look disappointed or confused or any of the things she’s feeling. Warm, tired, jittery.

“No, I think I do,” he quirks a theatrical eyebrow and she recognizes the smile of a tour guide thrown off base, following a joke back to something like confidence, “because you see, Astrid, I’m not that kind of boy. We haven’t even had our first date yet, how could I expect you to respect me if I put out before the first date?” He slides his hand back up her thigh and under the hem of her shirt, fingertips reaching around trace the notch of her lower spine and make her shiver.

She glares at him, “maybe the first date was just you decorating my apartment.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules on this one,” he holds his hands up and stands, using her shoulder for balance, “installing curtains is a way better first date for me than frozen yogurt, but this is a societal standard.” He offers her his hand and she accepts help up, ignoring her still wobbly knees. “I can’t just lump a first date in with my occasional handyman duties,” he squeezes her hand before letting go and starting to collect his things.

“Right,” she finally looks at the curtains, sliding the heavy material back and forth, “this is just what would have happened if I’d reported the loud lunatic in the courtyard doing tours to my landlord and asked for some curtains to be installed.”

“I hope not,” he hesitates just a second before kissing her forehead and stepping back with a hopeful, embarrassed expression, “I’m not the only handyman Gobber hires, you know. Probably the most unprofessional, but also—not to toot my own horn or anything—probably the one you most want to see with a plumber crack, so…”

“Is that an offer?” She tries on his method of joking to dispel the slight sting of rejection, even if she understands it. Even it’s an illusive later instead of a no.  

“I didn’t say I wasn’t a tease,” he puts on his jacket and looks around, obviously checking that he collected all his things, “I…it’s late, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Sure,” she waves him towards the door, fidgeting again with her pajamas. “Thanks for the curtains, I’ll pay you back or—“

“No, don’t,” he runs his hand back through his hair, “I borrowed the money from Snotlout anyway, not that it was a lot of money, and I meant it, it’s a present. Now you don’t have to put up with me quite so much.” He’s hopeful in a way that makes her want to lash out, to take back the closeness that went off track.

“Putting up with you isn’t so bad,” she sighs, “most of the time.”

Hiccup bites his lip, letting it go slowly with those charmingly crooked teeth, and sighing, “I just want you to know how much I’m going to be kicking myself about this for… approximately forever?” He laughs, “really, I just…police station grime and—“

“Why would I buy the cow when I can get the frozen yogurt for free?” She punches him on the shoulder, probably too hard, “I’ll talk to you soon.   Before forever.”

“Yeah, I’m going to—“ He points at the door with an awkward hand wave and slips into the hallway before he can say anything else.

Astrid breathes for a second before locking the deadbolt and moving her single chair to the other side of the room. It doesn’t look bad with the curtains.

[deadcactuswalking]

‘ZEZE’, The Perfect Trap-Rap Trainwreck. [REVIEW]

2018 has been a pretty odd year for popular music. I mean, it’s been pretty impressive too, tons of records are being broken right now, in fact, the song we’re going to talk about today has broken one of those records (although easily one of the least important ones). I’ll talk more about 2018 as a year overall when I make my best and worst lists (which, no, this song won’t be on either despite who made it), but let’s just focus on this one song, and how perfect it is – despite being freakin’ awful, generic and borderline unlistenable. Let me elaborate.

SONG REVIEW: “ZEZE” – Kodak Black, Travis Scott & Offset – Produced by D.A. Doman

What record did this break, do you ask? Well, with the advent of SoundCloud rap, mumble-rap and emo-rap becoming the new wave, some stranger music has crept onto the charts, whether it be because of its sound or background and/or origin story. Memes have gotten music popular for ages but a 90s Latin reggaeton/house track by the “Chacarron Macarron” guy which translates to “Give me your little thing” becoming a top 40 hit is relatively unheard of – this is especially weird because the remix with Pitbull was released way after the song blew up and then fizzled out. I know Pitbull was always on his way out and he’s basically now a living meme anyway but it’s still a shock to see stars I knew so well fade away like this – oh, yeah, and how does celebrity status and star-power matter even more than it ever has been and none at all at the same time? We’re about to get a Mia Khalifa diss track released in February by two teenagers after a fake tweet was posted by some Instagram page on the charts simply because of the power of some girl in cosplay lip-synching to the second (and more meme-able) verse on TikTok.

Hit or miss - I guess they never miss, huh? – Smoke Hijabi, iLOVEFRiDAY’s “Mia Khalifa Diss”

Yet we still can’t get rid of that pesky Drake rascal, hell, he nearly hit #1 again, this time entirely uncredited!

I did half a Xan, 13 hours ‘til I land / Had me out like a light, ayy, yeah – Drake, Travis Scott’s “SICKO MODE”

Last year we had the shortest song to reach the top 5 since the early 1960s, with “Gucci Gang” by Lil Pump, peaking at #3 despite a puny runtime of a mere 2 minutes and 4 seconds. Today, we’re talking about a song that peaked just one slot higher, and became the highest-charting song EVER on the Hot 100 that starts with the letter “z”. Yes, it’s an odd, unimportant and pointless milestone but it’s something nonetheless. Oh, but that’s far from the most interesting part of this song. Let’s talk about the production first, mostly because any time I can stall before talking about Kodak Black should be savoured greatly. It was produced by D.A. Doman, most known nowadays for that “Taste” song by Tyga, in fact, Tyga even remixed “ZEZE” because the beats were so similar, and there’s only one beat Tyga ever does all that well on – and it’s tropical synth-lead trap. The bass on “Taste” was mixed well, though. I feel like there’s too little here and it could do with some pumping up, although it does give the steel pans a very airy feel, to be fair, and those little tiny details like that funky synth that just kind of appears briefly as a speck in Kodak’s refrain are just really top-notch, and that catchy and clean vocal sample playing throughout the song pushes this beat into truly great territory. Hell, the beat was so good that it made the song a meme months before its release, where people added a caption to Kodak and Travis dancing very... interestingly to the song. There was also a teaser where it was just 40 seconds of the beat building up with people saying “f**k ‘em up, Kodak” in the background, and someone was dancing there too. I don’t know, all I know is that this beat is fantastic and... everyone’s gonna mess this up, aren’t they?

Well, Travis doesn’t, really, he’s just odd. After like 5 seconds of the beat without any percussion or bass, just the steel pans and basically no build-up excluding Doman’s producer tag, the catchy “D.A got that dope!” phrase, it goes straight into the beat, bass and all, as well as Travis’ vocals which have like twenty layers each of some gross autotune and reverb effects. Seriously, it’s slathered to hell and back with vocal manipulation and it’s really unpleasant, especially when it’s drowned in all these ad-libs. Let’s focus on the lyrics of Travis’ hook, though, because they’re really cute. It plays out as, to say it bluntly, “Baby’s First Rap Chorus”. All the clichés are there, but in their purest form.

Ice water, turned Atlantic (freeze!) / Nightcrawlin’ in the Phantom (skrrt, skrrt) / Told them hoes that don’t you panic

His wrist is froze because of his diamonds. He has a black luxury car, he’s lazily referencing his other, much better songs, and he has to add in those essential “skrrt, skrrt” ad-libs. Oh, well, at least there are attempts at being unique here, with the last line, especially since we can assume they’re in water here, so Travis desperately reassures the countless amount of women he is having sex with, “Don’t worry, it’s a Phantom! We’re not going to drown to our deaths!” And then he goes, “screw it”, and starts actually adjusting the Phantom so they have more space, thus his “hoes” do not die, depriving him of pleasure and satisfaction.

Dropped the roof, more expansion / Drive a coupe you can stand in (IT’S LIT!)

You know what, that’s a good idea, but, yeah, I’m kidding, it’s not that deep – it’s just that he’s driving fast. Of course it isn’t anything all too conceptual.

Took an island (yeah), flood the mansion (big water!)

Sorry, what was that last part?

(Big water!)

Big water? I mean, I know the line is about how he took a lot of producers and rappers to his ASTROWORLD sessions on a Hawaiian island or something, but is “big water” seriously something people say? It just seems so dumb and kind of childish. In fact, while we’re on the subject...

B****es undercover (in the sheets!) / I’m an a** and tiddy lover (big a**) / Guess we all made for each other

Rappers never really brag about taking time to appreciate the woman’s body whilst “in the sheets” but you know what, sure, I’ll take that, but the second line just potentially demonstrates the naivety of this chorus, like, it’s just pure rap cliché but in such a way that makes it seem like Travis is a robot that has been analysing rap lyrics and programming a very blunt and obvious bar that exemplifies that. Oh, and the last part is just a dumb filler rhyme, although it’s kind of funny to think about how it must be up to destiny that Travis’ girl has a big butt and he likes big butts.

Now that all the dawgs free (yeah, yeah) / And we out in these streets (alright) / Can you do it, can you pop it for me?

The robot theory is developed even further when we notice these two statements are entirely unrelated. My friends are free from prison, but we’re still in the streets, therefore, pop that kitty for me, girl. This is how the chorus ends too, it’s so anti-climactic, although I do want to point out that Offset more than makes up for Travis’ strange twisting of lyrical cliché, as his verse is pretty fantastic. The flow is great throughout, with some nice switches that keep the surprisingly long verse still feeling fresh and short by the end.

She an addict (addict)

Please don’t rhyme it with—

Addict for the lifestyle and the Patek (Patek), big daddy

Son of a—

Anyways, there are plenty of relatively memorable lines here that end up being pretty quotable, such as... UK football references?

In the middle of the field like David Beckham (field, bow-bow!!)

Oh, and they kind of explain what “ZEZE” means – it means “zombie”, a slang term for, of course, lean... because it’s 2018.

Pop pills, do what you feel, I’m on that zombie (hey, hoo!) / I’m more like Gaddafi, I’m not no Gandhi (Gaddafi, hey)

Oh, um, some of these lines come off as kind of rapey though, which is not the greatest tone to go for when you have a song with Kodak Black, to say the least.

I go in her mouth, she can’t tell me nothin’ (ugh, ugh, ugh)

Oh, and I guess it’s finally time to talk about the alleged rapist elephant in the room.

On my Kodak, woo, Black, ooh, know that – Childish Gambino, “This is America”

I’m not going to bring up his allegations anymore because frankly they’re completely irrelevant to his performance here, and all he actually adds to this review is proof for my conclusion: this song has so much good qualities, but they paint them in the grossest green colour possible. Each one of these guys just ruin the gifts they’re provided with. In fact, the beat changes for Kodak so he doesn’t sound as offbeat as usual, and, of course, it doesn’t work at all, he still sounds pretty terrible as always, but still, D.A. Doman switches up the beat slightly (which was near perfect as it was) to accommodate for the talentless and directionless ramblings of Mr. Kodak Black.

Pull up in a Demon, on God (on God) / Looking like I still do fraud (fraud) / Flyin’ private jet with the rod (rod) / This that Z-s**t, this that Z-s**t (this that Z-s**t)

Kodak is so unlikeable here. He sounds like he was on a news interview, with a noticeable Southern drawl, that went viral enough in 2011 to get an autotuned Songify This remix. Honestly, it sounds that painful of a vocal, and without the Gregory Brothers’ pretty great production and knack for melody, this is just a strain on both Kodak’s voice and my ear-drums.

I got the fire on me in BET Awards

I’m less surprised that you have a gun rather just that you’re allowed in the BET Awards.

In a Hellcat cos I’m a hell-raiser

Man, this song is robotically programmed, I swear! There’s no attempt at portraying any unique lyrical characteristics, personality or even a single attempt at interesting wordplay, rather we get a catchier version of Kodak’s typical topics, just in an even more boring flow this time, and delivered like he’s on pain medication... which is probably what they’re going for here. What a waste of a fantastic, beautifully-produced instrumental, one of the most diverse and unique trap-rappers out there in the form of Travis Scott, who is relegated to his awfully-written hook duty, and what a waste of that amazing Offset verse. Seriously, Offset, kick Kodak off, switch him for another awful human being, Tyga, and save this song (including Travis’ admittedly fun, albeit silly, hook) for your upcoming solo album. I can’t let Kodak Black own this song, it’s too good for him in concept. What a perfect trainwreck. Everything is given to them completely prepared and in good condition, and then they just trash it. This song is when you get something valuable or useful for a damn good price and your dog eats it within five minutes of you opening it.

Hit that Z-walk, Dickies with my Reeboks

Oh, come on, Kodak, I know I don’t like your song but you didn’t have to give me Vietnam flashbacks of Lil Dicky. That’s just not cool. See ya on Thursday, everyone. Peace.