#alternate acceptable reactions to listening to this song

[thebrainofmae]

[IMG ID: the “Why don’t you eat a piece of bread and maybe then you’ll calm down” meme but instead of “eat a piece of bread” it says “Listen to A Nation of Thieves by Bear McCreary”. END ID]

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Inbox is open! Let's see if my request is accepted 😅

So! Can I request Jane, Jeff, and Zalgo's reaction to their s/o burrowing their chest because "world hard and cold, titty soft and warm." This is with the assumption that they're comfortable with this level of physical affection.

Your request is accepted, and incredibly appreciated. I thrive on this stuff anon, thank you 🥺

Jane:

Jane has come to find this behavior of yours incredibly amusing. It's come to the point that when she sees you approaching her with any sort of sadness on your face she opens her arms wide and beckons you to her with a smile. She'll probably squish you into her chest real nice and tight with a laugh before relaxing back with you. I think she enjoys cuddling with you like that, laying on her side with your face smooshed up in her chest. She lays there with you, running one hand through your hair and the other doing comforting strokes up and down your back. She'll ask you if you want to talk about anything, and if you do (your voice muffled by the tits you have your face buried into) she listens attentively and responds in any helpful way that she can in an attempt to soothe your worries.

If you're not into talking about whatever is stressing you, she alternates between resting in silence with you, telling you stories about her days she hasn't shared yet, or maybe even humming or singing you a song as she holds you. With Jane's treatment, it's honestly damn hard not to fall asleep in her arms like that, and she'll stay in that position with you until you wake up, often falling asleep with you. Whenever you're feeling stressed she always tells you you're welcome to bury yourself in her chest, because sometimes all you need to feel better is a face full of soft tits, which makes you flustered and makes her laugh really hard. She might tease you for it every now and then, but it makes her just as happy and relaxed to have you snuggled up to her like that.

Jeff:

Jeff welcomes any sort of affection from you, especially if you're not feeling well, however, he was not prepared for what greeted him today. He'd just gotten home and had jogged up to greet you, his arms open for a hug, but he didn't know you'd just walk right up and shove your face into his chest, nuzzling into him. He chuckles but asks what you're doing, and when you say that special phrase, "world hard and cold, titty soft and warm", he can't help but burst out into loud laughter. His pecs are big enough that you can kind of move them around a little too when they're not flexed, so if you try and squish his pecs around or up to your face it makes him laugh even harder.

He's quick to scoop you up and carry you to bed, and he'll lay on his back with you resting on top of him and let you cuddle into him as much as you want to, however, you have to deal with him repeatedly gushing over how cute you are and teasing you for doing this in the first place, but he doesn't discourage it at all. If anything, he tells you it makes him happy he can bring you so much comfort, and he reminds you that if you ever need cuddle time all you have to do is ask. He'll keep you safe from the cold hard world and provide you with as much attention as you need. Really, he's just flustered from you doing that to him, and so incredibly happy to have a silly partner like you that makes him feel so loved and cherished. Will also probably tease you by asking you every now and then if you need "titty time" as he's started calling it.

Zalgo:

Often stuck in his office, you usually have to approach Zalgo to ask for snuggles, and of course, he always obliges you, happy to be able to get some physical affection despite his busy work life. When he asks what's troubling you, I would absolutely tell him the same phrase, because while it'll make Jeff/Jane laugh, it makes Zalgo SO confused. He just attributes it as a human thing, and hesitantly tells you, "You may cuddle up to my, uh... 'Tits' if you wish to, my love, if it would make you happy." Which is just about one of the funniest things you'll probably hear come out of his mouth, especially with how unconfident he sounds and the fact that he's clearly blushing, but he's just happy you find his love and affection so calming, especially considering his status as a demon.

You can crawl right into his lap while he works and smoosh your face into his chest, and he'll cradle you with one arm while he uses the other to continue doing his work. He'll probably carry out some small talk with you, happy to have a bit of extra time with you, and he'll ask you to tell him about all of the things you've been up to recently, cherishing moments like this. In fact, with how stressed you seem, he's probably likely to end work a little early so he can spoil you with a nice relaxing bath and some more cuddles in the privacy of your shared bedroom, so he can love on you and not have to worry about work at the same time. His chest is yours to cuddle up to whenever need be, so don't hesitate to ask him.

[rachelchinouriri]

RACHEL CHINOURIRI post from January 23rd 2022 expressing the difficulties of being a black woman in Indie Alternative Music

Before then it was always “indie” or “alternative” or even “electronic”. Then it became…

“You sound like a white girl”

“I can hear influences of soul”

“This is kind of RnB”

“Neo soul?”

“This is white music”

No, I am just black and you see my colour before you hear my music.

I, like many others, enter a space which would rather adapt the space than accept us

Urban, alternative RnB, Pop/RnB, Neo Soul

This is not to say there aren’t amazing black artists who make this music… it’s just not all of us.

If you didn’t know what unconscious bias was before, this is an example.

I don’t hate or hold anger to people who mistake me as I’m aware it’s confusing sometimes. Artists are genre bending more than EVER, including myself but it’s ALWAYS rooted from indie/alternative/electronic or pop influences.

In my early days, to be put into genres I never grew up listening to was so bizzare to me, then it clicked it was because of my skin.

Any producer I have worked with can tell you that I have never once referenced an RnB, soul, blues, jazz song.

I grew up listening to hours of Daughter, Coldplay, ry x, kodaline, James Blake, sampha, labrinth, melanie martinez etc

This is not to say that I’m not seen as indie now, but the journey here has sometimes pained me and it’s because I was scared to speak up.

I’m even scared to post this incase “I lose support” from people which is so weird… I feel like crying.

2020 the industry posted black squares and publicly promised to listen to black artists so let’s talk, not just then… but until we don’t have to anymore .

I’m honest with my music, this is just one thing that always scares me.

My biggest regret is not speaking when these things happened sooner because when I have, the reaction (for me) has been extremely understanding. I am SO lucky to have @atlasartists

Speaking up and unapologetically being myself rather than adapting has made my experience in the industry so much more pleasant.

Anyways, I love you all.

Black artists exist in every genre,

Just let us in x

This is me

Lots of love, rachel x

🥺

[shintin]

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 7 (Diablo)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gunplay, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: Bill Withers - Ain't No Sunshine

Note: Beware, for this chapter delves into the realm of blood, gore, and dangerous behaviors.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

Ninety-one days had passed since your arrival, each marking a change since reluctantly accepting Vash's offer of "friendship." Like within your confined existence, your cage had been expanded, granting you the limited freedom to venture beyond the walls of your room. Now, you could escape to the basement, where worn couches beckoned, accompanied by the flickering glow of an ancient CRT TV from a forgotten era. See? Fantastic! You were living in fairytales. Just like a fucking Disney princess. But a twisted one. Alas, the poisoned apple that would offer release remained out of reach, denied to you. No window to hell adorned this crypt-like domain, where your flowing locks could serve as a desperate escape route. Instead, you were left with the daunting task of perpetuating a charade, playing the role of a captive sleeping beauty trapped in the clutches of a formidable beast.

Too poetic, right? Fuck it!

And let's not forget about how you must be the most ungrateful bitch alive for complaining when your new bestie, Vash, occasionally graced you with his presence for a shared meal. Despite the gesture, conversations were superficial at best, revolving around banal topics like the weather or insipid inquiries about the quality of the food. Consequently, meals were typically consumed in silence unless Vash had a particular matter to discuss, leaving you with the role of a passive listener.

Because you had discovered that the majority of his sentences were intentionally crafted, and you made a firm commitment to yourself. You vowed not to allow him to deceive you anew with his clever words, determined to remain vigilant against his manipulative charm.

Charm, huh!

As the saying goes, you didn't provide him much in this fervently pursued friendship, yet he persisted regardless. Every time he visited, motherfucker arrived bearing gifts – be it a novel flavor of donuts, fresh garments, or a book intended to captivate your attention. You couldn't help but notice the intentional variety of genres in the books he presented. This left you with a sense that he was endeavoring to elicit a reaction from you in order to gain insight into your inner world.

But you would rather die than give him anything.

And then there were days like today's lunch, a departure from the norm; he appeared before you in a meticulously tailored black coat, exuding an air of opulence with its flawless texture and lustrous sheen. His ensemble was further enhanced by a black shirt and a crimson red vest adorned with regal patterns, resulting in a sleek and sophisticated appearance. However, despite this refined presentation, his silky black tie hung loosely around his neck, a visible symbol of his frustration. With a face etched with determination, he grappled with the delicate task of tying its knot, his fingers fumbling with the fabric as he attempted various techniques, all in vain. The scene was indeed amusing, as you found yourself engrossed in crafting origami ships out of folded napkins, observing his relentless struggle with a hint of lighthearted entertainment.

At times, he possessed a sweet, childlike quality. Although the thought of witnessing him inadvertently strangle himself brought some perverse entertainment, you learned from the guards that today marked the twins' birthday. Since when did monsters celebrate birthdays? With a resigned sigh, you let out a breath. Extending your hand, you retrieved the tie from him. Without uttering a word or offering commentary, he simply observed as you skillfully tied the knot on your knee before returning it to him. A seemingly perfect birthday gift, or so you hoped. Whatever! Fuck him!

Thank Gods he was silent today. He gazed at the tie momentarily, expressing gratitude before taking the plate full of origamis and bidding farewell with a smile, leaving the grand scene. Weird man!

After his footsteps had receded into silence, his subordinates diligently secured the door, taking utmost care as they locked it three times over.

It was probably before midnight when a sudden thump from above shattered the fragile tranquility of your restless sleep, wrenching you away from a state of hazy slumber that had enveloped your mind. As you blinked your eyes open, the closed door before you became the sole object of your attention, your gaze fixated on its faint outline while your mind struggled to process the startling sound.

Somehow, your heart raced ahead, the muscle beating rapidly within your chest, as a wave of unease caused the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. With caution, you gradually sat upright and slipped out from under the comforting embrace of the covers.

Adrenaline was coursing through your system now, instantly jolting you awake. A cloud of unease rolled in the pit of your stomach, casting a shadow over your senses. With trembling limbs, you rose from your bed, a sudden chill enveloping you and causing your skin to ripple with goosebumps. Shivering involuntarily, you mustered the courage to slowly open the door, cringing at the piercing creak that echoed through the air.

The sound could have been anything. It could have been the clatter of the guards accidentally shattering a foolishly placed vase, or shit, even a couple of ghosts roughhousing. After all, considering the grim history of the house, which had witnessed countless brutal demises, such possibilities were not entirely far-fetched. Nevertheless, an indescribable intuition gnawed at your gut, forewarning that an impending calamity loomed on the horizon.

Were they mere thieves, opportunists daring to exploit the near emptiness of the house to pilfer its trove of antiques? If that were the case, where were the supposedly vigilant guards?

No, that couldn't be.

It stretched the bounds of coincidence to believe that strangers would intentionally target the abode of a notorious mafia boss for a mere burglary.

Shaking like a leaf, you adamantly resisted the urge to succumb to fear and let it trap you in this wretched room. Summoning your resolve, you swiftly toggled the switch in the basement, causing the feeble illumination from the few functioning lights to flicker to life. The staircase materialized before you, partially shrouded in darkness, playing tricks on your mind as it conjured phantom figures lurking just beyond the reach of the light. With measured steps, you cautiously advanced towards the stairs, and to your surprise, you discovered that the metallic door stood unlocked—

And then, some was behind you.

You knew this because the frigid contact of the gun pressed against the back of your head was an undeniable reality coursing chilling sensation down your spine.

"Raise your hands, and don't do anything hasty, girl."

A sense of time dilation took hold as the world around you appeared to decelerate. You felt immobilized, unable to move a muscle. The voice that reached your ears was distinct and didn't belong to Vash or anyone you had encountered thus far, leaving you hesitant and unable even to blink. Every fiber of your being urged you to yield as your instincts clamored for compliance. After all, it was clearly not a propitious moment for acting like a dumb bitch.

"Hey, Neon!" the unfamiliar voice bellowed, causing you to flinch involuntarily at the sheer volume. "Take a look at what those fuck up twins are hiding in the basement."

As you pressed your lips tightly together, a whirlwind of apprehension and anxiety churned within you. Beads of sweat formed on your forehead, their salty sting teasing the corners of your eyes as you fixated on the man descending the staircase, his attire shimmering in the dim light. He approached you, his steps deliberate and measured, until he stood before you, his eyes alight with a disgusting gleam. And with perfect clarity, you watched him slowly shake his head at you. Warning you not to do what you were about to do. You stared at the hard lines of his face, fear steadily trickling through your body at an alarming rate.

He harshly cupped your chin in his hand, his touch threatening to break your jaw. His voice resonated with a twisted sense of captivation as he declared, "We came to take those brothers shine away," his words dripping with morbid fascination. "And behold, what a flashy gem they unknowingly concealed within this box. Such a shame! Beings like you ought to be showcased for all to revel in."

This couldn't be real. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be real.

Yes! Of course! Your stupid fucking brain must be a bit too imaginative tonight, but aside from that, this was hardcore real. If these intruders had managed to advance this far, it stood to reason that the guards had met their demise as well. So this was going to be your almighty end? No fucking thank you.

*

Much like Vash's previous visit, it felt like walking through a portal to hell when he walked into this club. It was stifling in here, the air so full of depravity and sickness that it was a physical weight on his shoulders. Jesus fucking Christ. He felt like he needed a goddamn gas mask to shield himself from the repulsive atmosphere surrounding him.

Their birthday party was immersed in an aura of chaos, defined by its dark theme. The pulsating bass of the music enveloped the surroundings as if originating from within his chest, which he had never immensely grown accustomed to the deafening volume of such venues. Fuckers! Shut the shit down!

Girls gracefully danced around the crowd of drunk revelers, blending sensuality and artistry, captivating the onlookers. The air was saturated with the scent of alcohol, intermingling with the thumping beats that reverberated throughout the place.

Seated in the expansive main area, the layout unfolded before him as an open concept. The ambiance was dimly lit, casting an aura of foreboding. Unlike those in the shady strip clubs downtown, the black marble floors gleamed as brilliantly as his recently polished shoes. The walls, painted a deep shade of blood red, remained devoid of creepy artwork, but plenty of creeps had occupied the booths and tables surrounding the stage.

His gaze fixated on a woman twirling around the pole, humping it to the beat while money was thrown on the stage. Shifting in his seat, he leisurely stretched his arms across the back of the couch, his legs casually spread apart. He might be dead inside, but his desires were pretty alive. The influence of alcohol was unmistakable, evident in his slight swaying and the dulled state of his senses due to the intoxicating haze. Nevertheless, amid the clamor of the party, a subtle irritation flickered across his countenance, adding a touch of annoyance to his features.

This side of the club was filled with couches and tables. Men had lounged on the couches with women draped over their laps and rubbing their tits in their faces. A full bar was where several men sat, drinking glasses of alcohol. Probably fifty-thousand-dollar Scotch that tasted like ass. Then again, they probably enjoyed that taste since they thought their farts smelled like flowers.

Women in revealing attire roamed the room, circulating among the crowd, serving drinks and feigning laughter at the patrons' feeble attempts at humor. Merely ten feet from where Vash was seated, a woman stood beside a man, extending her bare arm as the asshole callously extinguished his lit cigar on her skin. Smoke hissed and curled from the contact, yet she didn't move an inch. In fact, she didn't even flinch.

Upon closer observation, Vash discerned a blank expression on the woman's face, mirroring the detachment exhibited by the pole dancer gyrating provocatively on the stage. The pungent scent of singed flesh permeated the vicinity, lingering in the air. To Vash's dismay, one dickhead even waved his hand in front of his nose dramatically as if it was her fault it smelled.

Her arm fell limply to her side as she remained motionless, her gaze glazed and distant. Vash's attention was drawn to the entirety of her arm, which bore a multitude of burn scars—some old, others fresh—each at varying stages of healing and plenty of fresh burns from tonight.

Cigarettes and burn scars.

You.

Your scars.

The music pumping through the speakers was everywhere, though not to the extent of drowning out his thoughts. Anger erupted within him, intensifying as he questioned why his mind, in such an environment, was fixated on you. Pain in the ass!

Once again, his gaze fell upon the girl. For sure, she had been drugged. So, for a moment, out of anger, he thought of getting up and burning the man's hand with a lighter, but he was no goddamn hero. Even he, himself, was not significantly different from those around him.

"Mr. Saverem, how can I help you?" a blonde woman asked, leaning on him till her nipples were almost in his mouth if he hadn't pulled his head away. She wore a plain, loose black top and a mini skirt, with nondescript heels and her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Standing positioned between Vash's legs, she awaited his response.

The familiar vacant expression adorned her face, signaling that she, like the others, had fallen prey to the effects of being drugged. It became evident to Vash that they were all victims of this manipulation, a taste that Kni seemed to favor. He questioned himself, wondering why he had even entertained the notion of anything different in this grim situation.

"Where's Kni?"

"Who?" the girl asked, her confusion evident as she straightened her posture slightly.

Vash contemplated shifting his leg, but upon noticing the girl's lack of response, he raised an eyebrow inquisitively. In a swift reaction, she promptly retreated, creating some distance between them. "Where is your master, Knives?"

"Oh," she said, as if newly remembering. "Your brother is in the VIP—" Before she could finish her sentence, Vash was on his feet, navigating his way through the throng of grinding couples, drunk girls getting molested, and obnoxious douchebags drenched in excessive cologne with a mountain of gel in their hair. For fuck's sake, one even parted his button-up to proudly show off the gold chain hanging over his hairy, overly tanned chest.

From both sides, unsettling gazes from men and women fixated upon him as the sound of bass-heavy music filled the air, originating from somewhere ahead. Determinedly, he made his way toward the hallway. This section boasted opulent gold-tiled flooring, foreboding black walls, and an obscenely extravagant chandelier. Men in suits, whose names he wished to erase from memory, greeted him with disconcerting smiles, still riding the high from raping a poor girl or boy. To him, they all appeared indistinguishably repugnant.

As he arrived at the VIP section, Vash noticed that the bass had mellowed in intensity. Positioned on a crescent-shaped couch, Kni sat with his legs spread apart while a bartender enthusiastically bounced up and down on his lap while his head was kicked back with his eyes closed. The bartender's skirt was hitched up, her thong pulled aside, leaving her pussy exposed, eating up Kni's cock all the way down. This wasn't new for Vash. He had seen worse.

The presence of white powders streaked across the glass table made it evident that Vash's twin was high on cocaine. Meanwhile, Kni's devoted dog, Legato, sat on the opposite side of the room, probably for the first time receiving treatment from a girl and only because Kni probably had paid for it. Vash arched a brow, unimpressed with how low Legato's girl had to bounce. Little dick! Luckily, his partners never had that issue.

Letting out a sigh, he retreated into the shadows, and it took him five minutes to get out of this godforsaken place until he reached the table where the girl with cigarette burn scars was seated.

"Gentlemen, my apologies, but this one is off-limits for tonight," Vash snarled, his eyes ablaze with fury. With a single glance, she recoiled and shrank into herself while the other men chuckled mockingly.

"Excellent choice, birthday boy," Ruth, one of Kni's men, mumbled, casting a hungry gaze upon her, akin to a famished person with a plate full of food after weeks of deprivation. "She's got a delicious pussy."

"How coincidental! I had the very same thought," Vash retorted directly to the man, who chuckled heartily, relishing the idea of a woman being objectified. The old fuck!

Vash firmly seized the woman's arm, yanking her close to his body and forcefully pulling her away. Though she didn't resist with great strength, the instinct of self-preservation gradually emerged, battling against the haze of drugs within her system. Nevertheless, she had long accepted her fate.

Upon reaching a secluded room, he shifted his focus towards her. To his astonishment, she had already descended to her knees, her eyes fixed upon him with a blend of sorrow and surrender.

She possessed a captivating beauty, with lustrous brown hair, enchanting grass-green eyes, and freckles adorning her nose. There was a quality about her that bore a slight resemblance to you, and immediately, he felt a burning urge to storm back outside and crush his fist in Ruth's face just for touching her.

"Get up," Vash stated firmly. She rose to her feet with unsteady movements, resembling a baby giraffe taking its tentative first steps. "I'm going to get you out of here," he assured her, determination evident in his voice.

A crease formed on her forehead, and her expression turned into a frown. "Sir—" she started to say, her voice conveying a sense of unease or apprehension.

"How would you feel about getting a fresh start in life, yeah?"

Her eyes widened as if the idea of breaking free from her current situation began to dissipate the haze of drugs clouding her gaze. However, a sense of wariness replaced her initial glimmer of hope, eventually giving way to resignation. Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes as she looked down, seemingly gathering herself. "I understand what that entails. I-I apologize. I am here to fulfill your desires, sir. Please, grant me the opportunity to bring you pleasure—"

"I have no intention of causing you harm or taking your life," Vash interjected firmly, emphasizing each word.

"But-but you're Vash Saverem."  

The weight of her words slapped him hard, realizing the understandable skepticism the girl held towards his intentions. He couldn't blame her; he wouldn't trust a fuck up like himself. "I'm going to help you, but I need you to listen to exactly what I say."

She shifted uneasily on her feet, glancing up at him with nervousness, her head nodding vigorously. Vash swiftly retrieved his phone and dialed Livio's number, waiting for him to answer. With only a few words exchanged, Vash explained the dire situation at hand. It took fifteen minutes of coordination before a car was arranged to pick her up. During that time, the girl shared details about her family. She spoke of his father battling cancer. She revealed that she resorted to this line of work to cover the mounting medical expenses. However, she confessed her uncertainty about the worthiness of it all if it meant risking her life and the abrupt cessation of the additional income.

Never again would she have to bear the burden of caring for her family or endure the torment of cigarette burns, Vash promised.

As she approached the door, ready to enter the car, Vash grasped her wrist. A nondescript black sedan stood just two feet away, its door already swung open, beckoning her inside.

"Hey," he spoke calmly, causing her to freeze in her tracks. "I need you to promise me something," he continued. "Never discuss this matter with anyone, alright? I have the memory of an elephant, especially with faces. Understood?"

She would never see the wrong end of Vash's gun, even if she did tell, but it would make his life much more complicated if she knew that.

"Okay," she responded softly. "You're a very good man, Mr. Saverem." A solitary tear escaped her eye, which she quickly wiped away before nodding. Her brightened eyes shone with hope, and doing this shit was all worth it when he had her look at him like that. He still didn't consider himself a hero, but it was his birthday night, and he was allowed to do whatever fuck he wanted. None of anybody's business.

*

Stepping out of his vintage black cherry Mercury Cougar, Vash stretched his neck, his muscles taut with pent-up tension. Scanning his surroundings, he suddenly snapped out of a daze and realized the absence of doormen in front of the gate. Upon further scrutiny, he also noticed the guards at the entrance were nowhere to be seen. This felt off. The night had an unsettling aura, akin to being trapped in a metallic chamber, just waiting for the bullet to ricochet and hit him somewhere vital.

Couldn't this fucking night just end?

Vash proceeded cautiously through the back entrance. His movement abruptly stopped when he glanced to his left and spotted a pair of men clad in flashy attire—the notorious Bad Lad Gang members. Exhaling a sigh of relief, a slight burden lifted from his shoulders, confirming they weren't mercenaries. This meant there was a higher likelihood of you still being alive. Shaking his head, he retrieved his gun and screwed the silencer piece with precision.

However, his momentary relief evaporated when he overheard the words that escaped their vulgar mouths.

"Why are we wasting time?" one of the men inquired impatiently.

"That bitch refused to come with us. Who the hell would choose to stay in captivity instead of taking a chance at escape?" one of the men sneered. "I mean, we may not be saints, but we're still better than those Saverems. The van is already prepared for departure."

Vash's posture snapped into rigid attention, his body becoming as stiff as if cement had been injected into his spinal cord. The realization hit him like a sudden jolt—you had chosen not to go. Good girl.

"What if they return?" the man attempted to appease the situation.

"We've got our guys infiltrated into their birthday party. Big brother is all drugged up, surrounded by his crew, and the other is busy with a hostess in the back. Even if they do come back, Neon said he'll use her as leverage to secure our freedom and more money," the man explained confidently.

"But we don't even know who she is! She hasn't uttered a single word. How can we be certain that she's worth anything?" another man interjected.

"She must hold some significance if Diablo has her locked up. Neon is doing his best to coax her into talking. I hope he finishes soon because, judging by the brutal scars on Diablo's body, I definitely wouldn't want to cross paths with the younger Saverem," the man remarked with a shudder.

The first man casually waved his hand, dismissing his friend's very valid concerns. "He ended up with those scars because he was weak," he remarked callously.

Vash's laughter erupted soundlessly, his head thrown back and shoulders convulsing with mirth as he absorbed the twisted assumption made by the man. His laughter resonated through the confined space, intertwining with the eerie sounds that permeated the desolate house. The heads of the four men snapped towards him, their faces drained of color as if their worst nightmares had come to life. Soon enough, they would realize that he occupied the very throne of terror, and their nightmares would kneel before him, for he was a far greater abomination than any monster they could fathom.

Entering the room, Vash's grin broadened as he observed their instinctive recoil. Swiftly, before they could even reach for their weapons, Vash eliminated three of them. Dead. Easy peasy!

"Diablo—" the man who had previously exuded confidence began, his voice filled with unease and surprise.

"Do you want to know how old my scars are? Very old. They bear witness to battles against formidable adversaries. But let me enlighten you on who sprawled on the floor, their throats slit, and eye sockets hollowed out. It certainly wasn't me, you bastard," Vash retorted with a menacing edge.

The man attempted to dismiss Vash's story with a choked laugh. "Saverem, please, we weren't talking about you or your girl," he rasped out, his voice strained and broken.

His girl.

You? His girl? Huh!

"The worst mistake you could make is lying to me," Vash said, a flicker of anger seeping into his gaze as he advanced. Trespassing into his domain was one thing, but attempting to steal his precious asset was an entirely different offense. "Neon is your boss, right? Where is he?"

"Please—I have kids. Ple—"

Vash closed his eyes, exhaling a deep breath, and reopened them with a resolute gaze. " I'm not gonna repeat myself," he stated firmly, raising his gun to the man's forehead.

"B-B-Basement," the man stammered, his fear causing him to lose control. Vash couldn't help but find the man's demeanor pathetic, almost on the verge of peeing on his floor. What an ass!

"How many of you are inside?" Vash inquired, his hand delving into his pocket to count the bullets. Unsure it was disheartening to anticipate needing them even on his birthday or if he should find solace in having them for such an occasion, he embraced the latter. This was not a time for sadness. A sense of contentment washed over him, knowing his trusty, cold companions of metal bullets were beside him wherever he went.

"About twenty-five," the man replied. Not an insignificant number, but not particularly formidable either. With that, Vash wasted no time. He pulled the trigger, firing at the man, and without pausing to witness his collapse, he dashed through the doorway.

*

The crackling of parquet beneath his feet revealed his path leading towards the basement. The lifeless figure of the last person he had dispatched lay near the staircase, likely retaining some residual warmth. Vash shook his clenched fists, feeling the restlessness entwining his nerves into tight knots.

In the basement, Vash discovered a strategically positioned group of five armed men, three more on their six and four on their twelve. Cracking his neck, he savored the sensation of bones popping, finding solace in the release of tension and the subsequent relaxation of his shoulders. Fucking long night.

Taking down twelve men wouldn't pose a significant challenge for Vash as long as he executed his moves swiftly and stealthily. After cutting off the power, he knew disabling the guards surrounding the mansion would be easier. Finding a spot hidden in the shadows took two seconds, giving him the perfect shot angle. Their mistake was relying on their limited eyesight for intruders. His ability to hide in the shadows was what ultimately got them killed. They should have equipped themselves with night vision goggles. What fools! Maybe then he would have found a bit of entertainment in the encounter.

Slinking up to the door, he pressed his shoulder against the wall, ensuring his footsteps remained silent. With deftness, he turned the handle and smoothly slipped through the partially opened door, his body passing through the narrow gap. The metal door closed noiselessly behind him, bringing him one step closer to you.

The muffled screams of "NO" reached Vash's ears, the sound of your fights piercing his consciousness. White-hot rage blinded his vision; however, he knew better than to rush in recklessly or lose his fucking shit. No one could afford to succumb to their emotions in this situation; otherwise, you would never be rescued. It wasn't easy to maintain composure, though. These assholes had a way of bringing out the worst in him.

Keeping to the shadows, he made his way through the hallway; peering around the corner, he spotted you. The man who appeared to be the leader of this group of varmints had leaned in close to you, trapping your legs between his. The audacity! This was his spot!

Vash clenched his fists, the tension intensifying until his hands grew numb, and he drew his gun from its holster. He knew that once the first man fell, the remaining enemies would unleash a barrage of gunfire. That's why he needed to proceed with caution and quickness. While it was difficult to gauge how they would treat your safety, they might have valued their trump card's life above all else. However, some of these men were more concerned about self-preservation, which meant you could become an easy target for stray bullets.

As Vash had guessed, three men stood guard before him, blissfully unaware of his presence. Stupid fucks. He couldn't help but scoff at their ignorance. How could people be oblivious to the imminent danger lurking right under their noses? It baffled him to no end.

With precise movements, Vash dispatched all three men in quick succession. Their bodies collapsed to the ground while the remaining five men in the basement pit turned their heads in tandem, their faces morphing from surprise to alarm to anger in seconds. In a frantic scramble, they reached for their firearms. Meanwhile, Vash remained concealed behind the protective cover of the wall. Two men opened fire, forcing him to retreat and seek safer ground.

A bullet grazed the corner of the wall, narrowly missing Vash's face. Chunks of concrete scattered, stinging his eyes as the onslaught of bullets continued to zip around him. He grunted in response, reflexively massaging his eyelids to dispel the chaos and restore clarity to his vision.

Just as Vash readied himself for the next encounter, a man came charging around the corner, oblivious to his impending fate. Without hesitation, Vash swiftly killed him with a precisely aimed shot, leaving a neat hole between his brows. He was an ugly motherfucker, anyway. The world would do just fine without him. Before the lifeless body could crumple to the ground, Vash seized him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. Despite the repugnant odor emanating from the rotting wound on the man's face, Vash used him as a shield, stepping out of the hallway and utilizing the dead man's body as a barrier against the bullets that continued to rain down upon him.

The lifeless body absorbed a few hits as Vash skillfully fired two single shots, taking down two more adversaries. With a calculated move, he stepped back into the hallway, pushing away the bloodied man, now riddled with bullets. The man's head made a sickening thud as it collided with the wooden floor. Vash had briefly used him as a shield for five seconds, but he knew he had been fortunate. It wasn't like the movies. Bullets could easily penetrate through bodies, making such tactics risky and unpredictable. Typically, Vash avoided using others as shields unless absolutely necessary, and even then, only for brief moments to gain a tactical advantage.

He reloaded his gun as a chorus of noises raised in the basement in the form of terrified screams and yells of panic from the men, ordering to "kill the puta."

With six men remaining, Vash could sense the panic crawling off them. The threat reverberated as one of them shouted, his voice echoing, "Come out with your hands raised and your gun on the floor, or I'll kill your bitch!"

Vash let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the situation. Knowing they knew his weakness, he reluctantly complied with their demand. He dropped his gun onto the floor and emerged with his hands raised. The six men positioned themselves between him and you. The bitter knowledge that they were only doing so to ensure the bait wasn't damaged rather than giving a shit about hurting you burned hot in his chest. Despite the circumstances, he maintained a taunting smirk on his lips as he addressed them, "Come on, the fun was just starting." However, the lack of visibility prevented him from gauging your current state. The burning question lingered: Were you okay?

"Shut up!" the boss spat. He was a Latino man with an unconventional hairstyle adorned with tattoos that covered his entire body. He wore clothes that made him seem like he had raided a circus wardrobe. This must be Neon, the leader of the gang Vash had been hunting. It was a pleasure to meet you finally, dead man!

Neon's eyes were wide with fear, and based on the crack pipes scattering on the table behind him, Vash'd say most of them were high off their rockers. Not so good. Trigger-happy and fueled by their drug-induced state, they were unpredictable and prone to impulsive actions. And he got six of those happy fingers on triggers. "Who told you we are in your house?" Neon shouted, emphasizing his question with a wave of his gun.

Vash responded with a dry tone, "I felt your stench."

Neon raised his gun above his head and fired a shot, attempting to intimidate Vash. See? Trigger happy. However, Vash remained unfazed by the act, showing no signs of flinching or fear. Instead, he took the opportunity to carefully observe his surroundings. To his left, there was a table strewn with an assortment of items: guns, ashtrays, empty vodka bottles—his vodka bottles—and yet another crack pipe. Perfect.

"So, it seems you truly are the infamous arrogant Diablo," the man remarked, his finger caressing the trigger.

Vash maintained a composed demeanor as he inquired, "And you Neon?"

The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Vash could discern the traces of paranoia seeping into his eyes. It became apparent that Neon might not be as cooperative or helpful as Vash had initially anticipated. He was buzzing too hard. Neon responded with suspicion, "How do you know that? You following me?"

A wide, toothy grin spread across Vash's face. "It's what I excel at, after all," he replied. "Word on the street is that you're the big shot around here, running the show and all that." Neon shifted uncomfortably, a hint of pride flickering across his expression. It was as if he believed he was contributing something meaningful to the world, oblivious that his actions were centered around stealing valuable possessions while dressed like a clown. "I was actually hoping you could help me out, man."

"Yeah?" Neon patronized, his tone dripping with disdain. "You believe I'm going to lend you a hand? You must be out of your mind, Diablo." He fired another shot, this time deliberately close to Vash. Too close for comfort. Enough to feel the bullet's heat, yet he didn't flinch, and his calmness seemed to infuriate Neon even further.

Vash sighed. With Neon's current state of mind, he had to kill his ass down from his high. A swift assessment of the situation told him he had a mere two seconds before the rest of the men would open fire, regardless of what he said. With that limited timeframe in mind, he suddenly reached behind his back, retrieving his second gun and taking down one of the men to his left. The suddenness of his action caught the others off guard, buying him a small window of opportunity. Taking advantage of that momentary distraction, Vash flipped the table, causing the glass to shatter from the ashtrays and a gun to fall off the table, discharging a round and filling the room with shocked screams from the remaining men.

Fuck. If that bullet had ricocheted and landed just an inch closer to you, he would have willingly allowed himself to be stabbed rather than risk your safety. However, no cries of pain followed, so he took a deep breath, relieved but no less pissed at himself.

In perfect synchronization, a barrage of bullets pierced the thick, wooden table, punctuating the air with a loud sound. Fortunately, most projectiles failed to penetrate fully, a stroke of luck in Vash's favor. Returning fire was far too risky in this situation. Even the slightest exposure of his pinky toe would invite a hail of bullets, and he refused to jeopardize your well-being further by blindly firing back. He would only take shots when he had absolute certainty of their accuracy. For now, all he could do was wait, biding his time until the assailants emptied their clips.

Vash heard the rustling of clothing and muttered curses as they scrambled to reload. It took even less time for him to shoot the remaining four. The bullets had torn through the men's brains in rapid succession, causing their lifeless bodies to collapse simultaneously. However, he deliberately chose to spare Neon for the time being. He intended to deal with him later, in his own way.

Neon's mouth unleashed a torrent of curses, his colorful tirade spewing as he desperately searched for another weapon. He was nothing more than a whiny bitch trapped in a man's body, devoid of true courage. His face flushed with rage, filled with murderous intent as he fixed a fierce glare upon Vash. Now that he thought again, he had no time for these stupid games. Ignoring the look on Neon's face, Vash shot the thief in the head. Thieves had no home in heaven, remember?

And then he looked for you—the spitfire who would turn to a mush when he was around you. Between death and destruction, you had worn a smile on your lips, your eyes glistening with tears, your hair disheveled. Yet, there was an undeniable radiance within you, a precious light that warmed his heart and justified the violence he had unleashed to protect you.

In that moment, he couldn't help but question whether he was your savior or if you, with your enchanting smile, were the true source of his salvation. You embodied a majestic blessing, and he found himself addicted to the sheer joy that radiated within him each time you smiled in his presence.

*

Vash's face changed seasons as he reached you: the once rigid line of his mouth warmed into a bright smile. His eyes sparkled as he beamed at you, seemingly unfazed by the presence of lifeless bodies strewn about the surroundings.

Vash studied your eyes intently, his piercing blue gaze locked onto yours as if trying to read you for clues. But, the intensity of his scrutiny was often overwhelming, causing you to break the connection prematurely. In doing so, you felt a sense of disconnection, as if a vital tether had been momentarily severed, leaving you with a somewhat unsettled feeling.

"Get down—"

He tackled you to the ground just as the sound of gunshots filled the basement. His strong arms enveloped and pulled you close to his chest, his body shielding yours from the imminent danger. The rapid thumping of your heart drowned out Vash's voice as he leaned close and spoke into your ear, his words barely audible.

In a hushed whisper, Vash asked, "Are you all right?" as he held you even closer, seeking reassurance of your well-being. You attempted to nod in response, conveying your condition despite the tense situation. "Stay down," he said, his voice filled with urgency. "Don't move." His words were firm.

You had no intentions of doing otherwise, though you chose not to voice it to him.

The gunshots rang out, and you instinctively covered your ears tightly, seeking temporary respite from the ear-splitting noise. Then, abruptly, silence descended, leaving a void that was broken only by the sight of Vash dropping his gun and collapsing to the floor. With wide eyes, you turned to face him, witnessing him struggling to remain seated, his strength visibly waning.

As you took in the sight before you, your breath caught in your throat. Vash's head hung low, his neck limp, and his disheveled coat revealing an undone button. His dark shirt and crimson vest were soaked in blood, painting a grim tableau.

He had been shot, but when? Now? No. No. No.

You were too poor to afford the luxury of succumbing to hysteria. Instead, your focus shifted to finding a solution to staunch Vash's bleeding, yet fear held you back from approaching him. Your eyes scanned the surroundings, convinced Vash had ensured no remaining intruders were lurking nearby.

With caution, you gingerly maneuvered between Vash's legs, mindful of avoiding a direct gaze at the blood staining his hands. You consciously suppressed your imagination, refusing to let it overpower you in this critical moment. Not here. Not now.  

Gathering your resolve, you called out to him, your voice filled with concern and uncertainty, "Vash...?"

Your hand instinctively went to his neck, seeking his pulse, and at that moment, Vash's head snapped up with a sudden burst of energy. His eyes found you. His face, remarkably, appeared largely unscathed, save for the visible signs of weariness etched upon it.

"I'm not dead yet, love," he whispered, his weary smile gracing his face as if he were beholding you with fresh eyes, appreciating your presence anew. "I'm glad it didn't hit you."

Tears welled up in your eyes instantaneously, and his words flooded your thoughts, rendering your mind a whirlwind of confusion. Your mouth opened, but nothing emerged as your limbs felt immobilized, and your wide eyes remained fixated on him, reflecting a combo of fear, concern, and an overwhelming flood of emotions.

"You're worried for me?" Vash said, his voice hoarse.

"Shut up!"

His hand reached out to tenderly caress your cheek. No gloves. His hand was bloodied. You knew it. But you couldn't care less. It was the hand of your savior, and that fact outweighed any concerns about its current state. His thumb left faint blood trails on your face, and in response, your muscles finally began to relax from their tense state. With a resolute grip, you clasped his wrist firmly with both hands, causing him to flinch momentarily. Undeterred, you held on even tighter, seeking to provide a sense of stability and support.

You had grown an unexpected soft spot for him, maybe because he was vulnerable, or perhaps it was because he had taken a bullet while selflessly protecting you, a level of care that had been absent from your life for far too long. It was a stark reminder of his compassion, something no one else had done in ages. You swallowed down your deep-seated hatred, at least for the moment, and mustered the strength to ask, "Tell me, what should I do?"

"Love," Vash murmured, his gaze unwaveringly fixed upon yours, his lips slightly parted. Within his turquoise-colored eyes resided a haunting pain that seemed to hold him captive. His dark lashes unveiled a complex blend of sorrow and beauty as he blinked, a sight that struck you with unexpected intensity. The profound emotions he conveyed through a mere glance caught you off guard, revealing an extraordinary depth of agony entrenched within his heart.

Your throat tightened, and with a gulp, you released his hand, redirecting your focus to pressing both of your hands firmly against his torso. The warmth of his blood seeped through your fingers, staining your skin with a crimson hue in mere moments. The onslaught of rushing blood in your ears intensified, drowning out other sounds as waves of tension threatened to consume you from inside.

In a quiet voice, you found yourself whispering words to him that emerged from the depths of your being, words you didn't even know were there. Wave after wave of stress slammed into you, and fuck...everything blurred as fresh tears welled up in your eyes. It felt like your chest was splitting wide open, like your heart was spilling alongside his blood.

As you lifted your head, your gaze met him, and to your surprise, you discovered him wearing a genuine smile that had blossomed upon his lips. One so warm that it cracked the shell of coldness.

"Thank you, but pressing your hands on it is not gonna work," he said, placing his palms on the floor and endeavoring to push himself up into an upright position against the couch. "I need to see the wound. Can you help me unbutton my vest and shirt?"

As he inhaled deeply, his head snapped back, causing his neck tattoos to stretch tautly. Cold droplets of sweat trickled down from the tattoos, tracing a path along the collar of his shirt. He swallowed, and the movement of his Adam's apple was evident as it bobbed up and down. The sheer simplicity of this primal act sent a chill coursing through your veins, causing every hair on your body to stand on end. It stirred something deep within you, a sensation that hinted at something amiss within yourself.

Focus!

He had no tie, so carefully, you began to undo his buttons, your fingers trembling slightly as you navigated the task. It was then that you caught yourself instinctively closing your eyes, a reflex to shield yourself from the vulnerability of the moment. However, you quickly blinked them open when you felt something brush against your eyelashes, realizing it was a fleeting touch from his fingers. Holy shit! You were dripping, burning, and melting all at once.

"We can't proceed with your eyes closed," he said with a small smile the size of Jupiter. Intrigued, you cautiously peeked at his features, taking in the exquisite craftsmanship of every detail. Each element seemed meticulously designed, from his perfectly sculpted nose and chin to his finely-shaped ears and eyebrows. His eyelashes possessed a captivating allure that any girl would envy, framing his eyes with a wealth of color and depth, capable of inspiring countless works of art. Moreover, his golden hair resembled the ripe, undulating fields of wheat, a sight you longed to relish, while his eyes were a canvas with infinite possibilities, beckoning you to paint a million vibrant pictures.

Your eyes traced the contour of his jaw, allowing your gaze to travel along the graceful curve of his neck until it reached the apex of his collarbone. There, you committed to memory the sculpted landscape of his throat, with its captivating interplay of hills and valleys, accentuated by the presence of intricate tattoos. The sheer perfection of—

Scars.

His skin was shredded with scars.

Blood rushed to your head so quickly that you began to feel faint. You felt sick. Like you might actually, truly upturn the contents of your stomach right now. You wanted to panic; you wanted to shake someone; you wanted to know how to understand the emotions choking you because you couldn't even imagine, couldn't even imagine, couldn't even imagine what he must've endured to carry such suffering on his skin.

His entire torso was a map of pain.

Thick and thin and uneven and terrible. Scars like roads that led to nowhere. They were gashes and ragged slices you couldn't understand, marks of torture you never expected. They were the only imperfections on his entire body, imperfections hidden away and hiding secrets of their own.

Then, a realization washed over you, not for the first time, that you had no idea who Vash really was. You tried to tell him something. You tried to choke out. You tried to say so many times and failed. You tried to find his eyes only to realize he'd been watching you study him. The pieces of his face were pressed into lines of emotion so deep you wondered what you must look like to him. He touched two fingers to your chin, tilted your face up just enough, and his touch was like an electric wire in water.

"It's not a pleasant sight for a woman," he murmured in a low tone, and it felt as if the entire universe froze in its tracks, spinning in the opposite direction. Yet, your gaze remained fixated on him, on the expanse of his upper body. You were struck by the sheer perfection that unfolded before you, captivated by his flawless appearance from the front. Strong, lean frame, toned and muscular without being bulky. He was fair without being pale and skin tinted with enough sunlight to look effortlessly healthy. The body of a perfect man.

What a lie appearances could be.

What a terrible, terrible lie.

His gaze fixated on you, his eyes akin to blue flames, burning with an intensity that refused to be extinguished. You couldn't tear your eyes away from him and his chest's rapid rise and fall.

"Would you mind?" he asked, gesturing towards his wound, his tone attempting to convey a casual demeanor that thinly veiled the underlying apprehension in his eyes. "I'm bleeding a bit here," he added, acknowledging the criticality of tending to his injury.

"Do your scars hurt?" you blurted out suddenly.

He met your gaze with eyes widened in surprise, and in a quiet tone, he confessed, "Help me take these things off." Of course, he wouldn't answer you.

In a barely audible whisper, you mustered the courage to ask, "Will you tell me where they came from?" The weight of the question made it difficult for you to maintain eye contact as curiosity and trepidation swirled within you.

He was silent for so long. Then, his voice, like a gentle tug on a leash, called your name, instantly capturing your attention. You lifted your head, compelled by his words. "Help me take off my coat and vest. I feel like I'm suffocating," he requested, his pale face contorted with pain.

You didn't push further. With a nod of understanding, you delicately held him, careful not to hurt him further. He didn't say a word about the pain, trying so hard to hide that he was having trouble breathing. He was wincing against the torture of it all but didn't whisper a complaint.

You drew him closer, bringing his head to rest against yours, his deep breaths brushing against your shoulder. You seized the fabric's edge without hesitation, ready to gently remove it from his arms. However, the minuscule motion seemed to inflict unbearable pain, prompting him to bury his face in the curve of your neck. There, he stifled another groan, his lips pressing firmly against your skin, seeking solace in his discomfort.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so—"

Feeling his hand tugging on your t-shirt, his grip tight and desperate, he implored in a calm voice near your ear, "Just take them off." You attempted to comply with his request, carefully removing the garments, mindful of the pain it may cause him. In response, his hands transformed into a firm embrace around your waist, his lips shifted to lightly press against your cheek, and his body pressed intimately against yours. Your senses became acutely aware of his touch.

He was touching you, touching you, touching you.

"Love—"

As his body pressed nearer, a wave of awareness swept through you, consuming your senses until nothing else mattered except the ethereal dandelions blowing wishes within your lungs. Suddenly, your eyes flew open, capturing a fleeting moment as he briefly licked his bottom lip. His tongue grazed your neck, and in that instant, something in your brain burst to life.

You gasped. You gasped. You gasped.

"I—"

"Love, please," his voice trembled with anxiety. "Just—" he pleaded, his lips pressed tightly against your skin. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, and droplets of sweat trickled down from his hairline, falling onto your shoulder blade. His fingers slowly traversed the sides of your body, their movement betraying his inner struggle to remain composed. And he held you. It felt unlike any embrace you had experienced before. It was as if you were a fragile glass urn containing his entire existence—precious, vital, and an inseparable part of him.

With a swift motion, you removed both his coat and vest, expecting some dramatic reaction. But he didn't scream. He didn't die. He didn't faint, but you did cry, you did choke, you did shake, shudder, splinter into teardrops. He leaned back against the couch, and you couldn't help but notice the pallor that had washed over his face. It was a sight that broke something deep within your heart. Seeing him in this vulnerable state pierced your defenses despite your lingering hatred towards him. You would have preferred to witness him succumb instantly, with that infuriating smirk on his face, rather than seeing those big, blue eyes staring at you like a lost fallen angel.

"Some of them are remnants of our childhood games," he uttered, his voice strained as he cleared his parched throat. The revelation left you frozen in a state of horror. "The scars, I mean," he clarified. Your mind raced, struggling to process the implications of his words. Vash averted his gaze, his eyes devoid of any discernible emotion, his face locked into a neutral expression. The silence hung heavy in the air, pregnant with unspoken questions.

"Knives whipped you?" you managed to rasp, your voice hoarse and filled with shock. The words tumbled out without permission.

"Cut."

"Oh my God," you gasped, instinctively covering your mouth in disbelief. Your gaze shifted towards the wall as you fought to regain your composure. Blinking rapidly, you wrestled with the pain and rage within you, struggling to contain the emotions threatening to consume you.

"I'm so sorry," you choked out.

You had to suppress the words that threatened to spill from your lips. His flawless countenance. His impeccable physique. His eyes were cold and exquisite, like frozen gemstones. Gods! His concealed exterior was as shattered as his hidden interior.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of your emotions, you found yourself speaking without reservation, assuring him, "Your scars are not repulsive. At least they weren't for me or… your Nick."

His gaze remained fixed upon you for a while, but then he shook his head, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "I'll apply pressure to my wound with this vest. Meanwhile, I need you to retrieve my coat," he instructed. "In the right pocket, you'll find my phone. Take it and make a call to Bradd. He's on speed dial #2. Remember, there's no cell reception in the basement. You have to go upstairs." He paused, swallowing hard, before resuming. "The car's switch is in my left pocket." He took a deep breath and continued, "Get out of here before anyone notices you leaving. Once you reach the main road, you'll be able to make your escape easily."

WHAT? WAS HE LETTING YOU GO? It wasn't like he could stop you now, but…

As if someone had suddenly poured icy water upon your head, you gazed at him, knowing he wouldn't meet your eyes, for he was not the type to bid farewells and wish you good luck. He was letting you go out of feeling guilty; likewise, you were not one to let such an opportunity slip away.

You mechanically nodded, and with a final glance devoid of words, you swiftly grabbed his coat and made a hasty retreat up the stairs, leaving behind a silent acknowledgment of your parting.

This was all you wanted. To be free. Right?

You followed through with your actions: You did call Bradd. You did retrieve the car switch. You did make your way to the front door. You did stand there. Your hand did reach out and grasp the doorknob. However, your feet remained rooted to the floor despite your intention to leave.

Because there was a man in the basement, wounded because of you. Because that man had been shot before. Because the body never gets used to pain. Because he knew, and yet, he willingly bore it for your sake. Because where did you want to go? To your father? To that man who didn't even bother with saving you? Where did you want to go when you had nowhere? Because you only realize the depth of your desire to stay when the doors are wide open.

Upon returning to the basement, you discovered him in a distressed state. His head tilted back, his hands clenched tightly, and his lips nearly devoid of color against the backdrop of darkness. It was evident that he struggled to maintain a firm grip on his wound, unable to apply enough pressure to stem the flow.

As the sound of your footsteps reached his ears, he lifted his head and directed his gaze towards the phone in your hand, followed by a glance at the car keys held in your other hand.

In a whisper stained with desperation and vulnerability, he asked, "Why did you come back?" His words hung in the air, hopes dying and flourishing in his eyes, his eyelashes like pearls forged from pain. It felt as though he was consuming your very essence, and you, in turn, became entangled, ensnared in his presence.

"Why..." you began, your voice catching on the first two attempts at inhalation. "Why are you looking at me like you've seen a ghost?"

"Because I might be hallucinating," he almost chuckled, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and it felt as if you could sprout a pair of wings and take flight. "You didn't want to leave?" he inquired, curious about your unexpected presence.

"What?" you blinked, suddenly sobered. "No! That's not what I meant. I just thought that no one should have to go through the experience of dying alone. And remember, you told me I would finally be free when you're gone. So why should I rush to leave?"

"Yeah, that promise," he sighed, his gaze drifting downward. "You're one of the worst liars I've ever encountered." Time seemed to stretch as you waited and waited and waited for him to continue. "You just made a call to save me," he stated, his voice tinged with amusement. His eyes traveled from your shoulder to your elbow, eventually landing on your wrist, fixated on the phone in your hand. In that suspended moment, disbelief held you captive, leaving you at a loss for words. "Why do you want to make everything challenging, love?"

"How can you be certain that I've called for help?" you questioned, your voice laced with genuine surprise as you tried to raise your eyebrow.

His gaze held you captive as if pinning you in place. The urgency in his eyes ignited a spark within your very bones. He bit his bottom lip, briefly averting his gaze before the words spilled forth. "Because I know you," he declared, and a flurry of hummingbirds seemed to flutter within your heart. His eyes carried a tenderness, and his smile had the power to unhinge your very joints. A bittersweet longing stirred within you as you wished he could be someone else, someone better, so you could taste his lips' sweetness.

No lips!

Don't think about his lips, idiot!

You forced yourself to fixate on his face, determined not to let your eyes dwell upon the devastation that marked his body. However, as countless seconds ticked by, you could not tear your gaze away from him.

"I can't believe you returned," he murmured, and deep down, you understood the reasons why you shouldn't have. It wasn't logical or practical. However, against all rationale, you disregarded those thoughts and chose to sit close to him.

"You know," you informed him, "Bradd mentioned that he thought you were still fucking that girl from the party. You were obviously having fun, so why did you come home? Didn't things work out for you two?" Despite your efforts to mask it, a trace of annoyance seeped into your tone.

Vash stared at you, a genuine smile gracing his face. "No need to be jealous," he reassured, his words piercing through you. "I'm here because I'd rather celebrate with my friend than be surrounded by strangers." You struggled to maintain composure, like keeping your organs from falling out, hoping the holes in your head weren't showing.

 Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!

And bold because your hand instinctively reached out, gently brushing his hair away from his forehead. As you did, you noticed that his hair had grown slightly longer, a detail that had previously escaped your attention. The surprising softness of his blond locks, akin to melted chocolate, captivated you. It made you question why he bothered styling his hair in spikes when it looked so effortlessly appealing when left down. "Thank you for rescuing me," you expressed your gratitude, observing how he tensed his jaw and hesitated, opening and closing his lips.

Lowering your hand, you gently caressed his wrists, delicately tracing the tender skin with your fingertips, your touch grazing over the scars. This time, he didn't recoil; instead, he drew a fractured breath and closed his eyes. With a reassuring tone, you assured him, "You're going to be alright."

Like a wounded puppy, he made an effort to nod in acknowledgment.

Should you do something about his wound? Where was the first aid kit? He interjected as you contemplated retracting your touch, stopping you. "Don't," he said. "Your touch is the only thing keeping me from losing my sanity."

What? Why was he acting weird today? Was it because he was wounded?

You suppressed a shiver as a rush of warmth flooded your cheeks, coloring them with blush, and just for this moment, you dropped your bones and allowed him to hold you together. Luxurious was what this was.

Vash's cold, stained fingers enveloped yours, gripping them tightly, and the sheer delight that waved through you was so immense that it threatened to make you tremble. It felt as though your skin and bones had been yearning for his affection, and you didn't know how to pace yourself. You were like a starved child, attempting to satiate your hunger by devouring the richness of these moments, fearing that they would abruptly vanish, that you would wake up suddenly and realize you were a Cinderella who was still sweeping cinders for her stepmother. But then Vash's lips turned into a weary smile, and your worries put on a fancy dress and pretended to be something else for a while.

"How are you?" you inquired, your voice already betraying your unease, even though his grip on you was barely there. His laughter shook his body's shape, soft, rich, and indulgent. Yet, he remained silent in response to your question, and you knew he wouldn't. He was one of those who never talked about their pain.

His thumb delicately brushed against your hand, causing you to inhale sharply, your gaze instinctively shifting towards him. His eyes were telling you too much, so much that you had to look away because you were doubting whether they were real or merely figments of your imagination. Your skin, now hypersensitive, awakened with a pulsating vitality, humming with emotions so profound that it was almost indecent. You should have concealed these sensations but proved too potent to suppress. And deep down, you suspected he was aware of the effect he had on you—the electrifying jolt that surged through your being when his fingers grazed your skin, the proximity of his lips to your face, the searing heat of his body pressed against yours, all demanding your eyes to shut, your limbs to quiver, and your body to yield to the immense pressure.

You also observed the impact it had on him, the realization that he possessed such power over you. This must be his favorite torture. Something you were afraid would kill you.

"Have you got any tattoos?" he inquired, a smile gracing his lips as he reclined against the couch, his shirt stained with blood.

Well, this was undoubtedly a conversation you never anticipated having with Vash. "No," you responded, a touch of unease in your voice. "Besides, you've already seen me naked." For the last time, you allowed yourself to savor the sensation of his touch before consciously withdrawing your hand. You had to stop trying to convince yourself that he could be a fundamentally good person. Vash Saverem had committed unforgivable acts that should not be dismissed. You shouldn't have smiled at him. You shouldn't have even talked to him. And then you wanted to scream because you didn't think your brain could handle the split personality you seemed to be developing lately.

He studied his empty hands, a smile gracing his lips as he spoke, "I never looked at your back."

"Great," you responded, pausing briefly before continuing, "What about your tattoos? You like this maze-like design?"

His smile expanded, stretching across his face like a sunrise breaking through the clouds. Dimples reappeared, adding a touch of innocence to his countenance. A gentle shake of his head accompanied his words as he playfully challenged, "Why should I not?"

"I don't get it," you uttered, tilting your head in perplexity. "Are you trying to remind yourself of being trapped within a labyrinth?"

He shrugged slowly, momentarily glancing towards the empty space across the basement, before he tightened his grip on the vest, applying pressure to his wound. Despite your desire to offer assistance, you refrained. "How does one truly escape a maze," he mused, "when every exit merely leads to another entrance?"

A heavy silence enveloped the space between you. You said nothing. He said nothing. You took a few measured breaths, gathering your thoughts before finally responding. "That reasoning shouldn't serve as an excuse to stop making an effort," you asserted, while you couldn't quite fathom why you felt so nervous saying it out loud.

"Then why didn't you do it yourself, love?"

"I … have no idea what you're talking about."

"Why didn't you escape from the hell you were trapped in?"

"Wha— That's not an equivalent comparison!" Your words stumbled out, interrupted by a momentary pause as you grappled with your thoughts. "I never had the opportunity. I lacked the strength. It wasn't as if I remained there out of adoration," you clarified, your face burning with embarrassment, as if on cue, perpetually ready to be haunted by the shadows of your past, by the person you once were and continued to be. But it was strange. While one part of you struggled to be candid, another part felt comfortable talking to Vash. Safe. Familiar. Because he already knew everything about you. For he already held the knowledge of your entirety. There was no revelation about your history that would startle him, no actions of yours that would leave him aghast. This blond-haired man carried your secrets within his heart. And this realization, perhaps more than anything else, shook your very core and granted you a semblance of solace.

"Father," you persisted, the words escaping your lips as if propelled by an unseen force, your gaze fixed upon the floor, unable to break free. "he didn't let mom divorce him," you revealed, your voice filled with a mixture of anguish and resentment. "And when she needed him the most..." you faltered, abruptly halting your words, realizing the depth of what you were about to disclose, a secret too raw to expose further.

Horrified as you realized just how much you wanted to confide in him. In Vash. The very same terrible, terrible Vash who killed people before your eyes, who had wielded you as a plaything. It pained you to acknowledge that, despite everything, you felt a strange sense of safety in his presence. The honesty that flowed freely from your lips in his company ignited a self-directed hatred. You despised that, out of everyone in your life, Vash was the one person before whom you could lay bare your soul without fear of judgment.

The weight of protecting others from the haunting narrative of your father's existence had always burdened you. The fear of frightening your friends or divulging too much, for it might lead them to reconsider their trust in you, their affection for you, consumed your thoughts. Yet, with Vash, there was no need for pretenses. There were no hidden corners to shield. You longed to witness his reaction, to gain insight into his thoughts now that you had bared a glimpse of your personal history. But you couldn't make yourself face him. So you were rooted in place.

Time, it seemed to stand still. Vash remained motionless, not uttering a single word, not shifting an inch. The absence of a response only deepened the weight of humiliation that settled upon your shoulders.

Seconds flew by, swarming the room all at once, and you wanted to swat them all away; you wanted to catch them and shove them into your pockets just long enough to stop time.

At long last, he broke the silence, punctuating the stillness. "I understand," he said, his voice a gentle interruption that stirred you from your thoughts. Startled, you lifted your gaze, meeting his eyes. His head was slightly inclined, his golden locks cascading onto his forehead in delicate layers. And as your eyes intertwined, you found yourself captivated by the depth of his gaze. His eyes, an expanse of piercing blue, held a multitude of unspoken understandings within them.

"You do?" you asked.

"You're surprised."

"Then why subject me to this?" you questioned, gesturing towards the confining walls of the basement. "If you truly understand, why treat me like him?"

He shifted uneasily, displaying a hint of discomfort for the first time. "I offered you an opportunity to break free," he began, his voice laced with sincerity. "Yet, you chose to come back. It's not up to me anymore," he continued, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "You place excessive expectations upon me."

"Why not?" you asked.

A chuckle escaped him, carrying hints of amusement and weariness. He sighed, his gaze turning towards you, a smile forming at the corner of his eye. "You possess an insatiable curiosity," he remarked, his words gently teasing.

"I can't help it," you confessed. " You just seem so different now. Everything you say catches me off guard."

"How so?"

"I can't quite put my finger on it," you pondered aloud. "You're just … so calm. A little less crazy."

He laughed one of those silent laughs that shook his chest without making a sound and then groaned from pain. Your instinctive reaction was to reach his wound, your hands poised in hesitation, but you refrained from making contact. He noticed your intention, maintaining his smile in response. "My existence has been nothing but strife and ruin," he shared. "But right now," he glanced around, his eyes fixed on the wall, "removed from it all and so close to the precipice of death," he mused, "it feels like a damn paradise. I no longer have to be consumed by incessant thoughts or carry out obligations or engage with anyone or be anywhere," he expressed, a genuine contentment emanating from his words. "It's almost a form of luxury, in a way. Perhaps I should get shot more often," he added, his words drifting into the realm of introspection. As you studied him, truly studied his countenance in a way you had never dared before, you realized the profound chasm that separated you from comprehending the intricacies of his life.

He told you once that he would make different choices if he could go back in time. As you sat there, an epiphany struck you with resounding clarity. You realized the depth of his conviction, for you were just beginning to grasp the reality of his violent and disciplined existence. The true nature of his past remained a mystery to you, an enigma waiting to be unraveled. Yet, in that very moment, an unexpected yearning rooted within you. A yearning to peel back the layers, delve into the depths of his experiences, and truly comprehend his life's uncharted territory.

You observed his careful movements, the careful façade he crafted to appear unconcerned, relaxed. However, you perceived the underlying calculation behind each shift, each adjustment of his body. There was intent behind his actions, a purpose that fueled his every gesture. He remained in a perpetual state of vigilance, attentive to his surroundings. His ears were always attuned, his hands instinctively reaching out to touch the floor and the wall as if seeking reassurance. His gaze fixated on the door, scrutinizing its details—the outline, hinges, and handle. You couldn't help but notice the subtle tension rippled through him when you touched his self-inflicted scars. It was apparent he was always alert, perpetually on edge, prepared for battle, for immediate response.

It made you wonder if he'd ever known peace. Safety. If he had ever been able to sleep through the night. Suppose he'd ever been able to go anywhere without constantly looking over his own shoulder.

His hands remained tightly clasped over his wound, shielding it from further harm. As you observed him, your gaze shifted to his right forearm, and there it was—a black tattoo etched into his skin. A circle with intersecting straight lines formed a distinct pattern. It struck you with a profound realization that it had eluded your attention for far too long. Suddenly, fragments of memory flooded your mind, recalling brief glimpses of the tattoo's corners in previous encounters.

He caught you looking at his hands, quickly clenched his left fist, and covered it with his right. "Wha—"

"It's just a tattoo," he said. "It's nothing."

"Why are you hiding it if it's nothing?" You were already so much more curious than you were a moment ago, too eager for any opportunity to crack him open and figure out what on earth went on inside his head. "You're not going to tell me?"

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and proceeded to roll his neck, releasing the tension out of the lowest part, the part that just touched his upper back. You couldn't help but watch, couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to have someone massage the pain out of your body that way. His hands looked so strong.

As your train of thought wavered, on the verge of forgetting the previous conversation, he interjected with a revelation. "I've had this tattoo for nearly two years," he disclosed, his gaze briefly meeting yours before diverting away once more. "And I don't talk about it."

"Ever?"

"No."

"Oh." A bit of disappointment washed over you, and you instinctively bit down on your bottom lip.

He let out a sigh as he flexed and unflexed his fingers. His gaze fixated on his hands, palms facing downward, fingers splayed. With a hesitant motion, he slid his sleeve up, revealing his forearm, and slowly rotated his arm to offer you a glimpse of the tattoo, his facial expression betraying a subtle twitch of discomfort.

"Have you heard of the Eye of Michael?" he asked, his question serving as an unexpected segue into a different topic.

Misunderstanding the context of his question, you shook your head. "What's happened to his eye?"

Vash's intense gaze settled upon you for a full second, and then, unexpectedly, he erupted into strong, unrestrained gales of laughter—trying to rein it in and failing. You were suddenly uncomfortable and nervous in front of this strange man who laughed and had secret tattoos and scars and asked you about people's eyes.

"I wasn't trying to be funny," you told him.

Despite your discomfort, Vash's eyes retained a warm, smiling expression as he reassured you. "Don't worry," he began, his tone reassuring. "I didn't know much about it until Nick told me. Michael was one of God's Archangels, a defender of good against evil, protecting others. This tattoo represents my family. Anyone who bears this symbol is considered part of my kin, my blood and bone, and no one can touch them."

"What about Michael's evil twin? Even Lucifer can't touch your family?"

He probably caught the horrified look on your face. It's just a tattoo, love. No one can protect anyone from Lucifer. " 

"Even you, the Diablo?" you questioned, frozen in place, wanting and not wanting to look away. Vash offered no immediate response. Every swallow was evident in his throat. You couldn't help but notice how his chest rose and fell with each exhale and inhale, and something in you compelled you to reach out, to touch his scars, to feel their texture beneath your fingertips. A blush crept across your hairline, betraying the intensity of your emotions, yet you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him.

You were so caught, so intrigued by the cut of his physique. Your attention was drawn to how his waist tapered into his hips, concealed beneath the fabric of his pants—a desire stirred within you, an intense longing to uncover the mysteries hidden beneath those barriers. To know him so thoroughly, so privately. You wanted to study the secrets tucked between his elbows and the whispers caught behind his knees. You wanted to follow the lines of his silhouette with your eyes and the tips of your fingers. You wanted to trace rivers and valleys along the uncharted territories of his body.

You found yourself taken aback by the intensity of your thoughts as they veered into a realm of desire and longing you hadn't anticipated. The desperate heat simmering in the pit of your stomach unsettled you, urging you to ignore its presence. Butterflies fluttered within your chest, their existence both enchanting and bewildering. An unspoken ache resonated deep within your core, a nameless yearning you were unwilling to name. Beautiful. He was so beautiful. You must be insane. Gods, where the fuck were you?

"I believe," he spoke, "that the bullet hasn't hit a vital organ. But with all the blood, I can't be sure."

"What?" Startled, you abruptly tore your gaze away from his lower half, desperately trying to keep your imagination from drawing in the details. Instead, you shifted your focus to his wound, making a conscious effort to acknowledge and address the actual situation at hand. As your eyes fell upon the injury, you managed to regain your composure, albeit momentarily. "Oh," you managed to utter, your voice betraying a touch of awkwardness. "Yes, I see it now."  The fucking wound was located at the very bottom of his torso, very close to his v line. Yes. Very good. Yes. Sure. You thought you needed to lie down.

He discreetly covered his wound once more with his vest, and as you observed, you noticed that his pants button was left open, a casual and seemingly minor detail, but WHAT THE FUCK?

"I fucking hate suit pants," he grumbled, his annoyance evident. "I don't understand why we can't simply move around in comfortable, casual clothes," he remarked, questioning the necessity of formal garments.

"Who are you?" The question escaped your lips, fueled by confusion and disbelief. You didn't know this Vash. He seemed unfamiliar, a vivid departure from the Vash you had known. Was this asshole the same man who always wore tight clothes and now was talking about wearing comfortable ones? Did he have a concussion?

A self-assured smile graced his lips as he responded, "No one else needs to know."

"What do you mean?"

Confidently, he declared, "I know who I am. And that's all that matters to me."

After a brief silence, you frowned, your gaze shifting downwards towards the floor. A hint of wistfulness colored your words as you expressed, "It must be great to go through life with so much confidence."

"You exude confidence," he said. You're stubborn and resilient. So brave. So inhumanly beautiful. You could have everything." His words caught you off guard, drawing your attention back to him. Vash's gaze bore into you, his tone carrying a lot of admiration.

Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush.

A genuine laughter escaped you as you lifted your gaze, meeting his eyes directly. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm not interested in having everything. "

"That," he stated, shaking his head, "is something I will never understand." He attributed your perspective to fear, suggesting that your reluctance stemmed from a discomfort with the unknown. According to him, your concerns revolved around the possibility of causing harm to others, driven by the weight of perceived societal expectations and adherence to the rules you had been presented with. His gaze bore into you, filled with intensity. "I wish you wouldn't," he implored, his words carrying a sense of longing for you to break free from those constraints and embrace a different approach.

"I wish you'd stop expecting me to help you slaughter people."

He shrugged nonchalantly, his voice carrying a sense of matter-of-factness. "I never explicitly stated that it was a requirement for you," he responded. "However, it is an inherent part of this line of work, an inevitable occurrence along the way. In this business, killing is statistically implausible to evade."

"You're joking, right?"

"Definitely not."

"You can always avoid killing people, Vash. You avoid killing them by not doing this business."

A radiant grin adorned his face, seemingly unaffected by the previous conversation. His attention was elsewhere, captivated by a different sentiment. "I love it when you say my name," he said. "I don't even know why."

"Vash is your name," you pointed out. "I can call you Saverem."

His smile was wide, so vast. "God, I love that."

"Your name?"

"Especially when you say it."

"Vash? Or Saverem?"

His eyelids lowered, and he leaned back against the couch, revealing a pair of charming dimples. In that instant, the reality of the situation hit you like a jolt. Here you were, sitting together with Vash as if you had abundant time to spare. It was as if the outside world, with all its turmoil, ceased to exist within the confines of these walls. And yet, Vash's injured state served as a harsh reminder that he was bleeding before you, and the gravity of the situation weighed heavily on your mind.

You couldn't fathom how you kept allowing yourself to be distracted, and you promised to regain control over your thoughts and emotions. But just as you were about to speak, Vash interjected with a confession, "I'm sorry I ordered them to kidnap you."

Your mouth dropped shut, and your mind raced, resisting the weight of his confession. A torrent of questions raged within you, desperate for answers. "Why?" The floodgates of your emotions burst forth, urging you to understand the motives behind his unexpected revelations. Inwardly, you pleaded for your heart to quiet down, to cease its relentless clamor in the face of the unsettling truths that had been brought to light. "Why are you saying all of these?"

He spent far too long looking at you, leaving your question unanswered. He spoke with a heavy weight of remorse, barely above a whisper. "Every single day, I am sorry," he confessed, his words laden with a deep sense of sorrow. "I am sorry for believing that taking you captive would somehow serve as a solution. And then, for causing you pain when I believed I was acting in the right. I cannot apologize for who I am," he continued. "That part of me is already gone, already ruined. I gave up on myself a long time ago. But I am sorry for failing to understand you better. Everything I did was driven by a desire for revenge, to wield you as a weapon against that man. I pushed you too far, too hard, and did things to horrify and disgust you, and I did it all on purpose. Because that's how I was taught to steel myself against the terror in this world; that's how I was trained to fight back," he admitted, his gaze unwavering as he scrutinized you intently.

You tried so hard to recall all the justifications for harboring hatred towards him, desperately attempting to summon memories of the atrocious acts you had witnessed him commit. But you were tortured because you understood too much about what it was like to be tortured, to do things because you didn't know any better, to do things because you thought they were right, because you were never taught what was wrong. Because it was so hard to be kind to the world when all you'd ever felt was hatred. Because it was so hard to see goodness in the world when all you'd ever known was terror.

And you wanted to say something to him. Something profound and complete and memorable, but he already seemed to understand. Because he offered you a strange, unsteady smile that didn't reach his eyes but said so much

A sudden tightness gripped your heart, causing a jolt of panic to run through you. You'd almost begun to hyperventilate, and you realized, for the very first time, that the thought of Vash dead was anything but appealing to you. It filled you with horror, a sensation that struck your face, skull, and spine, knowing how much you cared about him. As well as the knowledge of his deep care for you.

You took a deep breath. Change the subject. Change the subject. Change the subject.

In a barely audible whisper, you found yourself uttering, "All those wounds are your brother's doing?" As you spoke, you observed a subtle draining of color from his face, mirroring the impact of your question. He looked away, tightly pressed his lips together, and instinctively placed his hands upon his wound. In a soft tone, you inquired, "Who hurt you like this?" You asked so quietly. Then you began to recognize the strange feeling you got just before you did something terrible. Like right now. Right now, you felt like you could kill someone for this.

"Love, please—"

"Where was your family during all of this?" you questioned, your voice a little sharper. "Why didn't your mother—"

"I'm a Mafia hitman, for fuck sake," Vash cuts you off, frustrated now. "IT IS NORMAL TO HAVE SCARS."

"No, it's not!"

He said nothing.

"These tattoos," you said to him, "are you hiding—"

"No," he said, though he said it quietly and cleared his throat. "I'm not ashamed of my scars!"

You blinked. "Then why are you—?"

"Why do you care?" he asks, looking away again. "Why are you suddenly so interested in my life?"

You didn't know, you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him you didn't know, but that was not true. For in that very moment, you felt it. You heard the symphony of the clicks, turns, and the echoing creaks of a million keys, unlocking a million doors in your mind. It was like you were finally allowing yourself to see what you thought and felt like you were discovering your long-hidden secrets for the very first time. And then you searched his eyes, surveyed his features for something you couldn't quite articulate. And you realized you didn't want to hate him anymore.

"I thought," you addressed him, "you wanted us to be friends." Your gaze fixated on the floor as you spoke. "If that's the case," you continued, "why can't you be honest? Why are you still trying to manipulate me? Why are you still trying to get me to fall for your tricks?"

"I have no idea," he responded, his gaze fixed upon you with a hint of uncertainty as if questioning the reality of your presence. "No idea what you're talking about."

"I don't even know how to communicate—"

"Why does it matter?" he questioned. "You seem to care so much about something that makes no difference in your life. It wouldn't," he said, "change your perception of me. You will still hate me. After all, that's what you said, isn't it? That you hate me?"

You drew your knees closer to your chest, directing your attention towards the stone beneath your feet. "I don't hate you."

Vash seemed to stop breathing.

"I don't know," you told him, "there are moments when I feel like I truly understand you. I genuinely do. However, just when I believe I have gained a true understanding of who you are, you manage to surprise me. And I never really know who you are or who you're going to be."

Raising your gaze, you met his eyes directly. "Nevertheless," you continued, "what I do know is that I no longer hate you. I've made sincere efforts to do so, believe me. Given the terrible, unforgivable acts you've committed against innocent people, including myself, it would be expected. But as I've come to learn more about you and witnessed the depths of your humanity, it has become increasingly difficult to cling to that hatred. Sadly, you are flawed and undeniably human."

His hair possessed a captivating golden hue while his eyes shimmered with a vivid blue brilliance. His voice was tortured when he spoke. "Are you implying," he said, "that you can accept my offer?"

"I-I don't know," you stammered, petrified by the sheer terror surrounding this possibility. "I'm just saying that I don't know." Pausing briefly, you took a deep breath to gather your thoughts. "I don't know," you confessed. "I don't know how to hate you anymore. Even though I want to, it's something I genuinely want, and I know I should, but I find myself unable to."

He looked away and smiled. The kind of smile that made you forget how to do everything but blink and blink. Perplexed, you couldn't fathom why your eyes refused to divert their attention elsewhere. Your heart, meanwhile, seemed to be losing its mind.

Almost absentmindedly, he touched his wrist, seemingly unaware of his actions. His fingers traced along his arm, gliding back and forth, until he suddenly became cognizant of where your eyes had gone and stopped.

"You sure about what you're saying?" He touched his wrist again.

You nodded.

Upon hearing his word, "Love," a profound stillness encapsulated your being, causing your breath to hitch momentarily. "I would greatly appreciate that," he continued, his voice conveying sincerity. "To have us getting to know each other right from the beginning." Another smile graced his face, radiating warmth and genuine desire. "Yes, I would truly like that," he affirmed.

The workings of your mind eluded your understanding. Perhaps it stemmed from the realization that he was broken, and you were naive enough to think you could fix him. Maybe it was because you saw your own reflection within him. Both of you had experienced abandonment, neglect, mistreatment, and abuse for circumstances beyond your control. In Vash, you saw a kindred spirit, someone who, like you, had been denied a fair shot at life. You thought about how everyone already hated him, how hating him was an accepted fact.

Again, you reminded yourself that Vash was a terrible person with no room for debate, doubt, or inquiry. The consensus had been reached: he was a loathsome human being who derived pleasure from violence, held an insatiable thirst for power, and reveled in the torment of others. But you wanted to know. You needed to know. You had to know if it was really that simple. Because what if, one fateful day, you were to stumble? What if you were to slip through the cracks, and no one extended a helping hand to retrieve you? What would become of you then?

So you met his eyes and took a deep breath.

But in an unexpected turn of events, the metallic door swung open, revealing the entrance of Lucifer, with his gray patterned suit, cold green eyes, and pale blond hair.

Hell was empty, and all devils were here tonight.

*

No one was speaking.

Surprisingly, the basement wasn't a terrible place to spend the cursed birthday night, despite the unsettling odor emanating from the assholes' lifeless bodies. It was relatively peaceful, but the approaching footsteps of his twin sibling served as an irritating accompaniment to an already nerve-wracking day.

God damn you, Bradd, for telling Kni!

"So," Vasg's maniac twin finally addressed him, curiosity lacing their words, "you chose to leave our gathering and return here?"

"I'm certain," Vash responded sarcastically, "I have the freedom to act as I please." There was a brief pause before he continued, "Does this disturb you in any way?"

"Regrettably, that is not the case; I thought you would rather spend your time with those selected girls," Kni replied, and his gaze swept over you, carefully observing you up and down, examining your bloodied outfit, your hair, your pale yet perfect face. Though Kni remained silent, Vash sensed his disapproval and, ultimately, his disappointment towards you. "But you chose this doormat," he finished his sentence.

Abruptly, you turned away, though not without Vash catching a glimpse of your tightly clenched fists at your sides. He could feel the anger emanating from you, and it pained him deeply. The way Kni toyed with your emotions stirred a fierce resentment within Vash, igniting an intense desire to inflict harm upon his brother, even if just a bullet to the leg, but he had to keep it cool.

"Why have you come here, Kni?" Vash inquired, drawing a deep breath and exerting more pressure on his wound as if to ground himself in the midst of the escalating tension.

Kni responded with a casual shrug, displaying the perfect nonchalance. "My plans are flexible," he remarked. "I heard you got shot and was genuinely curious to witness it firsthand." His gaze briefly shifted towards his twin. "Do brothers truly require a specific reason to meet?" And for a moment, the briefest moment, Vash sensed genuine pain behind his words —a sensation of being overlooked. It caught him off guard, surprising him with its presence. But just as quickly as it emerged, it vanished into thin air.

"In any case," Kni remarked, "Bradd should have arrived by now. After all, you contacted him before contacting me, assuming he would care for you more than I do. Yet here you are, clearly in need of medical assistance, and instead, you have this little whore by your side."

As your eyes locked with Vash, your visibly sorrowful gaze conveyed the anguish that resonated deeply with him. He would never reassure you or alleviate your worries in front of Kni, and it wasn't important since he suddenly seized Vash's arm with a firm grip and forcefully pulled him forward.

"What are you doing, Vash?" Kni's voice turned into a fierce, urgent whisper. "You abandoned me, only to end up getting shot—for what? For her? For Gasback's daughter?" His words dripped with disdain. "How incredibly foolish of you. And mark my words, this will not end well." Kni's eyes bore a warning, and instantly, Vash felt it—the unlocking of a long-held secret buried deep within his heart. A terrible sense of unease settled in the pit of Vash's stomach, accompanied by a nauseating feeling and a feeling of dread. And at last, he comprehended what he had been trying to deny: Kni wouldn't hesitate. No, he wouldn't.

Vash tightly pressed his lips together, his anger simmering dangerously close to shattering his composure. Yet, he remained resolute, knowing he had to maintain a semblance of civility for your sake. Meanwhile, Kni's grip on his arm intensified, exerting even more pressure. Their eyes locked in a tense gaze. Only Vash's determination to protect you prevented him from exacting physical retaliation, as he understood that inflicting harm upon Kni would be sufficient grounds for Kni to seek your demise.

"What has become of you?" Kni hissed into Vash's ear, his words laced with disappointment. "I had more faith in you. But this..." Kni trailed off, shaking his head in a gesture of sadness. "This is genuinely heart-wrenching."

Vash's fingers tensed, aching to curl into fists, and he was on the verge of offering a retort when you, who had been observing the exchange from afar, interjected, saying, "Let go of him."

Your voice had an undeniable sense of poise, an undercurrent of barely contained anger that seized Kni's attention. Startled, he released his grip on Vash's arm and swiftly turned to face you. "Your brother requires assistance," you spoke calmly but with an edge of reproach, "and yet here you stand, delivering grandiose speeches?"

Kni stared at you. "Excuse me?"

You stepped forward, suddenly looking terrifying. There was a fire in your eyes—a murderous stillness in your movements.

Kni's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his forehead creasing with astonishment. He blinked, momentarily taken aback, and then a hint of annoyance laced his response. "Ah, I wasn't aware you had been granted permission to speak," he retorted.

"I wasn't aware that I required your permission," you calmly replied, asserting yourself. "Especially considering that this is undeniably his dwelling." Though your hands might have trembled, you had managed to maintain a firm grip, a testament to your resilience and composure—clever girl, but dumb as hell.

Kni's smile widened, and he laughed out loud. And for the first time since he'd arrived, he actually looked sincere. His eyes crinkled with delight. "Little bug, you have a long tongue, and I have sharp knives," he addressed you. Better to say threatened you. "Vash, you've been given too much freedom, and she behaves like a stray dog. Where's her leash? Because your dear Bradd is not here yet, and we have to find a doctor for you since you killed the one we had—which I'm not even questioning—now she looks at me like she gonna bite me if I try to save you from bleeding."

Vash saw that you looked at him then, a question in your eyes. He wanted to smile at you. He wanted to scoop and carry you away, take you somewhere quiet, and lose himself. He was amazed that the timid girl, a little mouse beneath him, would just stand this brave before Kni. Braver than he had ever been. His thoughts should have surprised him, but he blamed the bullet for everything because somehow you looked so fuckable with his blood on your clothes and skin, and he had no shame admitting this to himself. It turned out to be fortunate that he had bled to the point of unconsciousness because, otherwise, in his healthy state, he wouldn't have known how to express his gratitude by making you moan his name with his dick shoved deeply in your throat.

Fuck!

He tried to hold on to it as long as he could without making things evident to Kni, but he thought his heart was still in a puddle somewhere on the floor. He was so stunned that it took him a moment to realize that not only had he stared at you the whole time, but he had also begun to remember what it felt like.

Hope.

The sensation, it was like tasting a drop of honey, witnessing a field of geraniums in full bloom during springtime. It felt like the refreshing touch of rain, a whispered promise of something beautiful, a sky devoid of clouds, and the flawless punctuation mark that gracefully concludes a sentence.

You.

You were…

"I won't be long," Vash said in a firm, cold tone. "Go back to your room and lock the door behind you." He hated himself for acting like this because he could see that you were about to smile, and suddenly your face transformed again. No. He couldn't do this to you.

While still sitting behind Nai, he slowly lowered his hand and crossed his bloody middle finger on his forefinger. His peace sign. And he saw that you saw it because you nodded, and the corner of your lips moved upward. There was a rush of emotion in your eyes. You knew pain. You were in pain, and he was the reason, yet you tried to help. And knowing this made his heart feel so full that he could hardly breathe. It lasted only a few seconds, but somehow, time slowed down long enough for him to gather the many details of this moment and place it among his favorite memories.

You could have left him alone and run away, but you didn't. You likely knew that he would never find that missing piece of belief if you let go. If he slipped today, he would be lost forever, with no one to return him. You didn't fix everything or solve any of his problems. But what mattered most was that you stayed.

He was suddenly grateful for being shot because it made him know that there was still something within him that others could perceive, something worth protecting and saving.

The veiled tapestry of the future held its secrets, concealing what lay ahead. Within the realm of prospective deliverance, his shadows may not have cast a shroud too dense to dim the flicker of redemption's promise.

Note: Apologies for the delayed update. Life has been quite a bitch lately.

Taglist: @julk4e - @lune010 - @beanibon - @emptybrain01 - @changingchances @awkwardchick87

[quietwings-fics]

Spin That Record, Babe

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Gabriel & Lucifer & Michael & Raphael) Additional Tags: Dancing Lessons, Waltzing, Fluff without Plot, Shippy Gen, Gabriel and Raphael are Twins (Supernatural), in an odd angel-y sense. i just feel it deserves a mention., Alternate Universe, Agender Raphael (Supernatural), Angels Becoming Humans, Raphael-centric (Supernatural), Depowered Raphael (Supernatural), Depowered Gabriel (Supernatural), Depowered Lucifer (Supernatural), Depowered Michael (Supernatural), Gift Fic Wordcount: 3070 Summary:

A brief interlude where we find out how many angels can danceon the head of a pinin the middle of Gabriel's kitchen.

The universal experience of having a little brother is that when they find anything that piques their interest, they’re going to run to you and put it in your hands. This is true whether that brother was actually born after you or if he was created in the exact same moment as you were by your Father. This is true whether it is a handful of helium atoms he fished out of a star before Lucifer managed to shoo him away, or a particularly bumpy looking toad he picked up in the garden and is now frightened for its life, or an important discovery on the laptop he found at the thrift store. Raphael is well-accustomed to being the pair of hands that most often received Gabriel’s ‘gifts’. Gabriel waves them over, and Raphael sets down their coloring book and goes. At least, if it’s on the computer, it’s nothing they’ll have to put back where he found it when he loses interest.

“Lesson eight on the good parts of humanity,” Gabriel begins. Raphael does not point out that he’s forgotten lessons three through seven, or that lesson two was a month and a half ago. “The internet.”

“I know about the internet, Gabriel.” He smirks. Raphael thinks about the half-finished bluebird in their book. They shake their head and watch the screen over his shoulder.

“But did you know that they’ve put every piece of music they’ve ever made on there?”

“Every piece,” Raphael repeats with deadpan disbelief.

“Would I lie to you?” Gabriel says. He’s typing in a link. The computer autocompletes it for him. After a minute, the page loads, and after a minute more, it shows a compilation of ‘Recommended Videos’. The vast majority of them announce themselves to be hair braiding tutorials. Absently, Raphael touches one of their own braids. Gabriel’s typing away again, and in a moment, those videos all vanish and are replaced with new ones. He clicks one, and it takes up a larger part of the screen, a spiral of dots in the middle. So far, Raphael is pretty unimpressed.

Abruptly, music blares out of the computer. Raphael jumps back. Gabriel jolts, too, and he scrambles to make it quieter. When it’s bearable, Raphael steps close to him again and listens. It’s the exact same song they heard on the radio yesterday. It sounds different through the computer than it did through the minivan’s speakers, but that’s the only difference. The singer asks for someone to scratch their back and apologizes for any skipping tracks, and Gabriel looks up at Raphael with a very familiar expectant expression on his face. It’s been a long time since they’ve encountered it, and their reaction must be lacking. “I really thought you’d be more impressed by that. Remember when they used to have to crowd around some local bard to hear a tune or two? And now, on demand!”

“I haven’t paid attention to music in a while. How am I supposed to know if it’s any good?” That’s an acceptable enough answer and wipes away the dejected look in Gabriel’s eyes.

“When was the last time you took a vessel? The nineteen eighties?”

“The eighteen eighties. Maybe.” Gabriel looks shocked.

“Raphael,” he says, “I love you, but you have got to get out of the house more often.” He twirls his finger in a loose circle, and then he snaps. “I know a guy. Let’s see if they have some of his work and jog your memory.” Raphael should tell him that they hardly stopped and listened to the music of the times, even back then, but he’s trying so hard to help them connect to this and so they stay quiet. “C-H-A-I- No, there’s a T in there somewhere.” Gabriel wrestles with spelling until the computer gives him what he wants. “Here he is.”

The volume has been lowered to a tolerable level now. Raphael listens. It’s a different kind of song that Gabriel now presents to them. Intense when it begins, and the instrumentation is wholly unlike anything Raphael's heard by chance on the radio. Raphael leans closer, intrigued, and as the song quiets and then races again, they begin to understand. Their heart seems to speed with music, as though any part of them could leave their vessel again and take to the skies. Their chest aches with the reminder of their loss, and the song grows soft again as though in tune with their thoughts before it lifts back up. Raphael wants to follow it.

"It's beautiful," they say. When they look at Gabriel, they realize he's been watching their expression this entire time. Their hand flutters restlessly in time with the spinning chords, a growing desire to do... something with their limbs that they can't put into words. Gabriel takes their hand as he stands.

"Only one thing to do with a waltz," he comments.

And Raphael, as ever, listens to what their little brother wants to share.

"It's simple once you get the hang of it," he says. "There's a rhythm to it. One, two, three, hear it?" Raphael can't pick it out, but Gabriel puts their hand on his shoulder and rests his other hand against their waist. "Step back." When they do, he comes forward. "And to the side, and forwards, and there it is." Gabriel leads them through it, again and again, slow at first and completely out of time with the music. When the song draws to a close, he pauses. Raphael aborts a step forward before they end up tripping them both up. Before Gabriel can even go over to the computer to check, however, it begins to play a new song. "Huh. Convenient. Where were we?" It gets easier with repetition, and as Gabriel brings them in time with the music, Raphael can hear the rhythm he was talking about. One-two-three, in time with their steps, one-two-three, and Gabriel laughs. "You're a natural, Raph."

"When did you learn to do this?" Gabriel is setting the pace, but Raphael is as important to the dance as him. Their movements complete what he starts. It is achingly familiar again.

"I've had a lot of time and a lot of hobbies. Taxidermy, dish-washing, and a dozen different styles of dancing. It's all about finding the right partner." Raphael sweeps left with him. All that Gabriel doesn't say is clear in how surely he grips their hand, in the mixed surprise and gratitude that crosses his face when Raphael moves in tandem with him. They don't have to wonder how long he spent searching. The answer was one gaping wound in the body of Heaven and one empty chair at Sunday dinner. Raphael sat with his absence for so long that they forgot how vibrant Gabriel was. Now, he guides them both around the table all four of them ate breakfast at this morning, and if Raphael had the choice, the music would never stop.

Behind them, they hear the door to the apartment shut loudly. They don't need to turn around to know who it is. They read it easily in Gabriel's expression, the slight tilt of his head and smirk at the corner of his lips.

"Care to join us, Luci?" In a few more steps, Gabriel has turned them enough that they can see their brother. Lucifer looks aggravated, which is why they usually don't let him go to the store (or anywhere he's expected to interact with humans for more than five seconds) alone. His gaze drifts over the two of them, and some of that frustration melts away. He sets down a bag on the counter. Inside, Raphael can see pasta. That's reassuring. If no one supplies him with the materials, then none of them will have to live through Gabriel's more experimental cooking again. (Gabriel claims that casseroles are perfectly acceptable human dishes, but they're borderline inedible to Raphael. Likewise, he regards the fact that they tend to combine food according to complimentary colors to be abhorrent.) The music continues on as Lucifer makes his choice. The computer has an endless supply to play for them. Finally, their brother steps forward. Gabriel might have his head cocked confidently like this was all a master plan coming together, but he squeezes Raphael's hand excitedly when Lucifer looks like he'll come dance. He's fooling no one.

"What do you say? Dance with the devil?" It takes Raphael a moment to realize the question is directed at them. Gabriel tips his head at Lucifer, who is kicking his shoes off to the corner of the kitchen. Raphael was expecting him to go instruct Lucifer the same way he did them, but when offers this option, they find themselves stepping away from one brother towards another. Gabriel holds onto their hand for as long as he can before he has to let them go. He circles them, favoring a hands-on teaching method as he places Lucifer's hand at Raphael's waist where his was before. Raphael closes their eyes and listens to the music instead of Gabriel telling Lucifer the steps. They find the rhythm again.

One-two-three.

One-two-three.

One-two-"Raphael?" They open their eyes. Lucifer is waiting.

A dance with Lucifer is more difficult. He is not, or should not be, a part of them any longer. Where moving in tune with Gabriel still came as naturally as a heartbeat, it becomes arrhythmic when Lucifer takes his place. And yet, the disconnect isn't wholly in them, but in their vessels, imperfect conduits through which they must interact. These muscles were not trained to fight together, and for as light on their feet as it makes them feel, dancing isn't much like flying at all. Perhaps Raphael could match Lucifer in flight through the rings of a solar flare with ease, but a waltz leaves them both clumsy. Raphael moves to the rhythm that Lucifer hasn't picked up yet, and Lucifer steps too wide for them. Gabriel's hands land softly on their back or Lucifer's arm to offer corrections. It is, to be blunt, a mess.

Raphael hasn't had this much fun since-

Well. Since their light and laughter left Heaven.

They can see the strain his missteps put on Lucifer's pride, and for that, they keep their mouth shut. Gabriel does not, teasing him for his flat-footedness, but then Gabriel was always Lucifer's favorite. All he gets in return is a glower and an easily dodged bump. He comes around Raphael's other side and puts his hand over where the two of theirs are joined. "And lift," he says. All three hands go up. Gabriel nudges Raphael forward until they go under the arch they've formed. They didn't lift them high enough, and Raphael can feel Lucifer's wrist brush the top of their head before he corrects it. Around they go until they're back where they started.

"I want to do that again," they say. Obligingly, Lucifer lifts their hands to let Raphael under them again. It's simple, but it's delightful. They settle back into their previous positions, and the dance continues.

Raphael's not sure when Michael gets home. One moment, it's only the three of them, Gabriel now off to the sidelines as they and Lucifer have gotten better at dancing, and the next, they turn and see Michael standing near the entrance, watching them. They miss a step, and Lucifer's foot bumps into theirs. He follows their gaze back over his shoulder.

"I didn't want to interrupt," Michael says when what he means is that he knows he shouldn’t. It might be guilt or it might be pride, but either way, Michael will lament that he can never let himself be a part of them the way he desperately wants. Perhaps, if he was only faced with Gabriel and Lucifer, they would let him pull away and feel sorry for himself while he does it, but Raphael has spent lifetimes wrangling Michael. 

“Come dance, brother.” Michael is hesitant, but he comes. 

To kill Lucifer required Michael to be closer to God than to them. Son to absence, rather than sibling to what remained.

It is very hard for Raphael to see Michael as above them, by age or experience or their Father’s blessing. Lucifer can treat Michael like His surrogate on his worst days, and Gabriel looks at Michael like he should have been wise enough to protect them all. Raphael is the one who stayed long enough to comb broken feathers from Michael’s wings when he stopped doing it himself. They would have followed him until the end and cared for him in the aftermath of Lucifer's death, which would, even if neither of them ever acknowledged it, destroy him as much as falling on the battlefield himself.

Raphael rests their left palm against Michael’s right and guides his other hand to rest against their shoulder. They place their right in the middle of his back. 

“I’m leading,” Raphael says firmly. Michael’s eyes drop to where they’ve positioned his hand but they draw back to Raphael a second later. He opens his mouth to say something, but he decides against it. Raphael closes their eyes, focuses on trying to find the rhythm Gabriel pointed out earlier. It lies hidden beneath the rest of the musical flourishes, but as steady as ever goes the one-two-three. They exhale, and they step back. Michael takes a moment too long to step with them and breaks the rhythm. 

On the next cycle, Raphael tries again, and Michael, expecting it now, goes. They grow more bold, guiding him with the hand at his back. They prompt him to turn slightly with their next steps, and they manage a slow circle. It brings Gabriel and Lucifer back within Raphael’s view. Lucifer’s hand is on Gabriel’s waist, but it’s clear from the way they move that Gabriel isn’t waiting for him to decide the steps. Gabriel catches their eye. He winks, and Raphael can’t hide a smile in return.

With another rotation, they lift their arm for a spin. Michael’s hand doesn’t follow, caught off-guard again, and Raphael realizes Gabriel didn’t show him how to do this. They grip Michael’s hand and lift it for him, using their other hand to make him turn. They have to lift onto their tiptoes to get both their arms over his head.

When he’s stopped twirling, they’re still holding hands. Michael lets his grip falter, but Raphael only holds on tighter in response.

The music ends abruptly. Gabriel goes over at the computer. Raphael’s hand falls from Michael’s back. They’re expecting another waltz, another familiar rhythm. Instead, the computer starts singing again, a woman’s voice, a soulful swing to her words.

“Gabriel?” they ask. It’s a small sensory overload compared to the music they were dancing to. They can’t pick out the one-two-three. How are they supposed to dance to this?

”There’s more to this than following the steps.” Gabriel holds out a hand. “Any takers?” To go to him, Raphael has to reluctantly let go of Michael, who looks like the sudden change in tempo has sent him into shock. Gabriel takes both of Raphael’s hands in his. “Freestyle, Raph!” Raphael has no idea what that means or even where to start. Luckily, Gabriel sees. He tugs them into something similar to a waltz, the same circle, but with steps that aren’t nearly as organized. They spin together, and it can only loosely be described as ‘in time’ with the music. Gabriel looks delighted.

There's a scuffle and a thump from the couch that has them all turning. Fen's woken up from his midday nap and barrels across the checkered floor into the middle of their little gathering. Fen always moves like a dog that has not yet realized it is quite small, and as such, is constantly bumping into chairs and legs like he expects them to be pushed aside. He hits Michael's leg this time, yapping excitedly. He recovers, shakes, and circles Raphael and Gabriel, still barking.

Gabriel lets go of Raphael to pick him up, hoisting the little mutt into the air as he wiggles around and tries to lick at Gabriel's face. Gabriel spins and dips, leading to another round of barking. Some part of Raphael wonders if they shouldn't remind Gabriel about the noise complaints they've already got a collection of, but then Gabriel hugs Fen close and looks completely at peace. Their neighbors will simply have to live with a little barking and dancing.

It's Lucifer who steps forward first to take Gabriel's place. Raphael lets him. He's humming along to the chorus, and they join in, not thinking much of it until Lucifer stops all of a sudden, looking a little shaken. Raphael spares him a reaction, keeps humming, until he gathers himself and carries on like it's nothing. Like he hasn't been deprived of his siblings' voices for centuries. Some things are meant to be remedied, not talked through until the scabs are picked to bleeding.

Michael hesitates again. Of course he does. But not forever. On one twirl, (just as fun as the first time. Raphael is never going to get tired of this. Their vessel disagrees, slightly winded but it hasn't forced them to stop yet.) he steps in, and Raphael goes from Lucifer to him. There's a frustrated noise from Lucifer, quiet but clear, and Raphael takes Michael's hand and guides him until his back is to Lucifer. His focus is on them, and when they put their other hand on his chest and give him a gentle shove, he's not expecting it. He stumbles backwards into their brother.

Gabriel freezes. Fen tries to nip at his ear with a confused whine. Raphael holds their breath.

Michael hums. Lucifer is silent.

Michael's humming falters. He makes to step away. Lucifer catches the tune where he left off, wraps his arms around Michael's waist, and hooks his chin over his shoulder. For only a few moments, they sway. Michael raises a hand to lay over one of Lucifer's. Lucifer lets out a breath, releases Michael, and retreats. Michael stays frozen.

It's enough. Raphael takes pity on Michael and moves back into range to dance again. Behind him, Lucifer passes Gabriel's offered hand, but he doesn't leave. He watches them from a comfortable distance until the music ends, Michael and Raphael tire out, and Fen starts squirming to be put down.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[heroes-fading]

thank you for answering my question about Inordinary! I'm now imagining how confused some of the in-universe fans of The Last Of Us band would be if they suddenly heard a song ft Ellie Williams and had no idea who she was (I picture it to be like my surprise hearing Bon Iver's deep af voice when first listening to Exile, haha)

i've actually been thinking a lot about The Discourse of the national fans about taylor featuring on their album (their subreddit has been lowkey embarassing) and how tlou-band fans would respond to ellie. i've landed on their reaction as more of their response to phoebe bridgers of "oh that's still alternative enough" in terms of music.

plus i think in-universe there would have been A Lot of media around ellie's trial which would have been the most publicity joel has had in years for being such a present figure during. i imagine some degree of discourse around austin-jackson dropping ellie right after, which would be the point of david pushing it. and the dots would get put together after the article about david and all of the details come out.

overall i think a) ellie would probably bring in more teenagers to listen to the last of us, much to the fanbase's exasperation and eventual acceptance and b) i think the relationship between joel and ellie after that media circus would be so evident that fans would be like damn...less depressed dad!joel is back....this is actually really special.

also makes me think of the nine inch nails/trent reznor and atticus ross collab on halsey's if i can't have love, i want power. another older band in terms of demo + content but holy shit when it works, it really works. i'm a believer in the power of the middle-aged rock band/indie alt girl crossover. insert phoebe bridgers quote about the overlap between middle aged men and teenage girls' music and emotional vulnerability lmao.

also if they didn't get over it i'm pretty sure joel would just pelt them with a pbr, the beer of choice of lesbians and allies. i'm kidding. joel doesn't know what reddit is nor does he care.

[libbystcwart]

LIBBY STEWART'S DEVELOPMENT

December, 2022.

What is your character’s full name?: Elizabeth Marie Stewart. Goes by Libby because she loathes her first name. Tried on a few variations of nicknames for Elizabeth before settling on Libby. Her brother Benji calls her Lizzie just to get a reaction from her.

When were they born?: On November 23, 1988. Came three weeks earlier than expected but that was just a foreshadowing of how much of a prompt person she would turn out to be.

What are their parent’s names?: Daisy Stewart (Momma) and Robin Stewart (Ma).

Do they have any brothers or sisters?: Three siblings. Benjamin (brother), Mallory (sister), Kallie (sister).

What kind of eyes do they have?: Blue eyes. And on most days those eyes are covered by a piece of glass since she prefers to wear glasses. Has contacts but hates wearing them for long periods of time.

What kind of hair do they have?: Naturally, she's a brunette. Decided to dye her hair when she was in high school. This past year she chopped her hair to just past her shoulders and added some bangs. Might go back to being brunette in the future, but hasn't made any solid plans.

What is their complexion like?: Pretty fair skinned and tends to sunburn easily. She also keeps her skin very moisturized since she hates the feeling of having dry skin. Keeps up with a mild skin routine.

What body type are they?: Slim, but athletic due to keeping up with pilates and cycling classes. Takes pride in the muscle she's achieved in her arms.

What is listening to their voice like?: Libby has a softer voice with a little bit of a Southern accent. Used to hide her twang but has come to accept that it's part of her. Over the years, her accent has dwindled down. All in all, her voice is comforting to listen to.

What do they hate most about themselves?: She really, really hates how she has a tendency to bury her emotional baggage. Instead of facing it headfirst, she'll just ignore it until it goes away. And that's worked out for her up until recently.

Do they have a favorite quote?: "I wanna be defined by the things that I love, not the things I hate, not the things that I'm afraid of, not the things that haunt me in the middle of the night. I just think that you are what you love."

What sort of music do they enjoy?: Country pop, pop, folk, alternative. She'll listen to at least any genre, but she likes to stick to her favorites. You'll always see Taylor Swift, Bear's Den, Kacey Musgraves in her top artists list.

Have/would they ever cheat(ed) on a partner?: Technically yes. Kissed men and women from bars, took a few of them back to her place, but nothing ever serious.

Have they been cheated on by a partner?: Most likely. Not that she knows what Lincoln Scott has been up to in the past decade or so, she assumes that he hasn't been celibate.

Have they ever lost someone close to them?: She has, yes.

What is their favorite sound?: The sound of rain pitter-pattering against her house when there's a rainstorm.

Are they judgmental of others?: Not really, she likes to get different perspectives of how others see things so she doesn't judge anyone too much.

Have they ever been drunk?: Let her go through a bottle of wine or down two shots of tequila and you'll find drunk Libby. She's more emotional when she's drinking wine and more looser when she's drinking tequila.

What are they like when they stay up all night?: Restless. Most likely reorganizing something in her house or watching multiple episodes of a TV show. And once the sun comes out when night turns into day, she'll try to make it through the day without taking a nap. But she'll be a little bit scatterbrained.

Have they ever been arrested?: No, and hopes to never be.

What evokes strong memories for them?: Certain dates, certain foods, and certain songs. She's someone who associates things with a certain person or place.

What do they do on rainy days?: If she can, she'll make herself a place on her windowsill and open up a book. She also likes to stay in bed and watch one of her favorite comfort movies.

What religion are they?: She grew up going to a nondenominational Christian church, mostly because of her grandmother's insistence. As she formed her own opinion on organized religion, she understands why it's important to some people and sees how it helps them in times of need but chooses to not to keep up with it. In her mind, you could pray to whatever higher power you believed in but things still happened whether you wanted them to or not.

What word do they overuse the most?: "Shit."

What do they wear to bed?: A cute pajama set, usually. Always has to have socks on otherwise her feet get too cold.

Do they have any tattoos or piercings?: Has both of her ears pierced and a few tattoos scattered throughout her body. She wants to get a few more, though.

What type of clothing are they most comfortable in?: Nothing too fancy, really enjoys wearing jeans and a T-shirt. You can also find her wearing overalls or a sundress when the weather allows for it.

What is their most disliked food?: Goulash, and please never serve that to her if you ever have her over for dinner.

Do they have any enemies?: Maybe? But she prides herself on being friendly with everyone.

What does their writing look like?: She has really nice penmanship. Always legible writing that's clean and tends to look like cursive. Always dots her I's with a heart.

What disgusts them?: Cleaning up Bacon's pig pen, especially the poop. And finding a lot of dust bunnies or spider webs whenever she's picking for Polished Brass.

[nacrelyses]

normal album analysis as a musical: the child

first a disclaimer: i know this interpretation was not will wood’s intention in making the album, this is just how the music resonates with me and i hope it helps other people as well.

now following up on my last post about the normal album potentially being interpreted as the life of a queer child in a conservative family (tw internalized and external queerphobia, gaslighting, mental illness). 

let’s call this ..hmm.

a normal musical: the child.

suburbia overture: the aforementioned overture, the establishment of the musical setting as your typical white picket fence upper middle class suburb nuclear family. traditional values, traditional lifestyle, traditional children, with the vampire culture segment foreshadowing the way that imposing conservative values and self-loathing on a closeted queer child “sucks” the life out of them.

2econd-2ight-2eer: when the child starts questioning, the very act of questioning defies the moral compass their family has set out for them. possibly reflecting the way that questioning and exploring one’s identity, in addition to being rife with internalized queerphobia, is also fraught with the self-gaslighting that comes as a result of the internalized queerphobia, which might make the child believe they’re simply “losing it” or that whatever they’re experiencing is a mental illness. also the first stanza: “my grip on my secrets slipping while i’m speaking in tongues, screaming at the top of my lungs in the confession booth” religious trauma much?

laplace’s angel: the child has begun to come to terms with the fact that they are most likely queer, and the complete deterioration of their family’s imposed conservative values. this is the phase where the internalized queerphobia still makes them feel as though they’ve become a bad or evil person, thus laplace’s angel being them internally pleading for the world and for society to see them as they really are rather than a villain deviating from the norm. that if others were in their shoes, they’d walk the “same damn miles”, the same damn crises, the same damn emotional turmoil, that the child is currently going through .

i/me/myself: gender cannonball...need i say more? maybe the child believes, as a product of internalized transphobia, that it would be easier if they were their assigned gender - or perhaps, depending on the individual, maybe the child is wishing to be able to exist as their true gender. in either scenario, this song encapsulates the desperation that comes with exploring identity. the freedom that arrives with a revelation and the immediate restriction that comes with realizing that that revelation can never be truly realized in a queerphobic family. or even the bitterness at knowing their family makes such a huge deal about queerness, that queerness is somehow a gigantic roadblock their family will never be able to cross. both realizing your identity and still grappling with the idea that if you were born into the “norm”, you wouldn’t need to go through all this pain to try and figure out who you really are. it’s the turmoil of being genuine in a society that would actively oppress you for doing so and putting up a facade that somewhat lessens the aforementioned pain, but at the cost of further internal suffering. 

also, to my fellow genderqueer and gender nonconforming will wood fans (and let’s face it, which one of us isn’t?): i see you. i see your spotify listening activity. i see the loop button. i would ask if you’re okay but i know we’re not

...well, better than the alternative: parenting angst here, maybe alluding to the parents themselves perpetuating toxic cycles that they never had the opportunities to realize or heal from. the child is born amid these toxic cycles, and although this toxicity (the queerphobia, for example) is the norm in this suburban family, deep down the parents don’t want their child to turn out the way they do. meanwhile, on the other end, the child is feeling as though “everybody’s up in my goddamn business” - maybe the parents are starting to suspect that their child is less than cishet (or maybe the child has come out to them), and within their denial of their child not turning out the way they want them to, maybe they unconsciously realize that it’s their own toxic parenting styles that have made their child so afraid and secretive about who they really are. if this is the scenario that the child has come out to their parents, they have decided that even if they are existing in a conservative family, they will be existing as themselves. or if it is a closet scenario, the child has decided that they will continue to hide themselves from their family for their own safety. in either situation, the child believes that the decision they made is “better than the alternative” 

(this song also makes me remember hospitals a lot so there’s that)

outliars and hyppocrates: we start off with some more religious (trauma) imagery. maybe the metaphor of the apple is trying to indicate to the parents, through the conservative lens of seeing queerness as something bad, that the child was not “brainwashed” or “taught” to be this way. that they simply are. the rest of the song grapples with that internalized queerphobia, maybe the child feeling that they are less than human because of their queerness but who’d want to be human, be the norm, anyway? if the child is made to feel Other, then they ought to embrace and wear and own that Otherness - out of defiance, out of desperation, but ultimately out of a need for survival. 

blackboxwarrior: i want to focus on the chorus here. the child’s mental struggles are exacerbated by the lack of acceptance they receive from their immediate environment, but the chorus acts as sort of a defiance against their internalized queerphobia. so what if their parents’ values portray queerness as an illness, something that will kill you? if it was going to kill the child, it would have by now; and it hasn’t, so surely the child is heading in a right direction to be exploring and reclaiming their identity. and then the bridge - “growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence?” ties back to i/me/myself’s grappling with the idea of self and existence in one’s body. growing up, how was the child’s relationship with the environment that dictated how they ought to exist and be perceived? and “what, you think ideas spread because they're good? / no, they spread because people like them” can be pointing to the conservative ideas that are perpetuated by the child’s family. these ideas do not spread because they’re good. they spread because the family wants an excuse from some higher power to discriminate against those they feel are outliers from the norm. “so here we are once again, holding, as it were, a mirror up to your mirror / i guess it's just something people do” can be pointing to how the way the child is trying to come to terms with their identity is by overcoming the toxic ways of thought that their parents taught them, and which their parents are still bound by. if the parents are to find out that their child is queer, their reaction will be to ask, “why? we don’t understand you?” but they are really only talking to the mirror, to the reflection they have constructed that they believe their child to be. their child is not that reflection, and they are going in circles, but that’s just what people do, i guess.

finally, the bridge being formatted sort of like one’s first session with a therapist or psychiatrist leads into marsha, thankk you for the dialectics.

marsha, thankk you for the dialectics: a heavily psychiatry-based song. marsha thankk is about the intertwining of the self with the illness and i value that meaning a lot. i can’t think of another way, nor do i particularly want to think of another way, to embed this song’s meaning into the child. it has grown obvious by this point that the child has their own mental illnesses to grapple with - whether they arose as a need to cope within their toxic home environment, or out of other factors, is not particularly important to be clarified. i would say that the meaning of this song in this musical is just what it was originally intended to be - the child, on their path to recovery, slowly separating those toxic coping mechanisms from themselves in order to really realize their identity. 

love, me normally: i wrote a long ass post about this at 12am this morning. 

memento mori: the musical’s closure. this song embodies a lot of nihilism about one’s existence and one’s meaning in existence, and i would like to think that this song being the musical’s closure is not closure in the sense that it gives you a “where are they now” glimpse, or that it gives you the final direction that the child has decided to head in. rather, memento mori exists in this musical as the child’s innermost thoughts about their own existence as somebody who seemingly defies the (supposed cishet) order of the universe. it is the child’s darkest, most shadowed and hidden ruminations about their life and what their death may bring, if anything at all. throughout the child’s life, throughout the musical, these thoughts have only been hidden, obscured and glimpsed in passing when the lyrical puzzles of the normal album’s previous songs unfurl (think, “if it was gonna kill you boy, it would have by now” and “am i pretty enough to fucking die” and “good news for the purists, they’ve discovered a cure for the symptoms of being alive / it’s a painless procedure with a low rate of failure, but very few patients survive”, etc). but as the musical’s finale, memento mori brings these thoughts into their very antithesis - into the light. it illuminates the rawness of the child’s pain in learning to accept and love themselves. it brings these thoughts into tangible and articulated reality for two reasons: 

for the audience, as both a warning of the results of such a toxic and intolerant family/environment and an articulation of the thoughts perhaps many of us, ourselves, have to contend with at some point in our lives.

and for the child themselves, so that they can fully realize these thoughts. so that they can parse them, articulate them, unlearn them, and begin to heal.

memento mori in this musical is, paradoxically, a song about death that encourages life to heal.

anyways that’s what i’ve got so far now i have homework i should...do....oh god-

[sokkastyles]

I read a pro-Ma/iko take a few weeks ago and I would love your insight because I couldn't put into words why it's so 'ick' to me. The post referenced to all the times someone tried to/has touched Zuko's scar. It went something like: 'Katara touching his scar was insignificant because it was a superficial way of 'healing' him (i.e. she was a means to an end for him) but also bc she doesn't 'know' him. While Mai touching it meant she still saw him as the same Zuko and was trying to comfort him.

Okay, so there’s a couple of things going on here so I’m going to address these two arguments seperately:

1) Katara touching Zuko’s scar to heal it is insignificant because it was superficial and she doesn’t know him.

2) Mai touching Zuko’s scar means she sees him as the same Zuko and was trying to comfort him.

I heavily disagree with both of these arguments and not even from a shipping POV, but as someone with a disability that affects the way I look, even though mine is very minor compared to Zuko’s.

I actually have said that Katara’s offer to heal Zuko’s scar was a superficial healing and not what he really needed, but that doesn’t mean the offer itself wasn’t meaningful. Zuko didn’t need to have the scar healed in that moment, and I’m so glad he didn’t because I am very opposed to narratives in which disabilities and disfigurements get magicked away (*stares intently at Netflix’s Witcher) but it was the first time that someone had offered him the possibility of healing, and Zuko’s reaction to that tells you how much that meant to him. He’s totally blindsided by the offer not just because what she’s saying sounds impossible (and I tend to think Zuko had no idea that waterbending could be used for healing, and when she offered to heal Iroh he was not at all in a place to listen), but because he’s used to viewing the scar as a representation of his own failures. He sees it as a burden he has to bear, something he has to constantly make up for. That’s essentially what he says in his speech to Katara. Even when he says he has realized lately that he can choose what to make of it, he emphasizes the idea that it’s something he will never be free of. Katara saying “maybe you could be free of it” is important not really for the offer to have the scar erased, which isn’t what Zuko needed, nor would it make him magically switch sides, but because she’s offering a totally alternate perspective on the scar. What if you didn’t have to bear this burden? What if you never had to in the first place?

And that totally shakes Zuko because it’s the first time someone empathized with him over the scar, knowing who he was, knowing what he’s done and where he’s come from, but not actually knowing the details of how he got it.

Iroh tells Zuko all the time that he didn’t deserve how Ozai treated him, not necessarily in words but in actions. And Iroh was there, Iroh knows the whole story intimately. Iroh watched as Zuko was burned. People like Song and Jet who empathize over the scar but assume he got it while fighting the Fire Nation can’t truly empathize because if they did know who he was, they would hate him. And, in fact, Jet turns against Zuko as soon as he learns he’s a firebender (even if only by association, Jet never saw Zuko firebend, just Iroh).

But Katara knows exactly who he is. And she does hold him accountable for what he’s done. But then she sees something different, when he apologizes to her, and when she realizes that he’s another kid like her who has lost their mother. And unlike Iroh, she doesn’t know how he got the scar. She doesn’t know how his family has hurt him, beyond the one thing he said about his mother (which could have meant a hundred different things). And she could have made all sorts of assumptions about the scar. She could have thought that maybe he deserved what happened to him, maybe he’s just a violent person who got burned doing something violent. Zuko might think that if she knew she would think the same thing that a lot of people both in the Fire Nation and outside of it think (like the guy in the Earth Kingdom village in “Zuko Alone”), that the scar showed how much of a disgrace he was, a failure, a weakling, not even his father wants him. But she doesn’t make any of those assumptions despite not really knowing him. She just sees someone who was hurt and it doesn’t matter to her how or why, all that matters to her is that she can do something about it, and if she can, it would be against her character not to try.

That’s a very powerful disability-friendly message because she’s not ignoring the scar, she’s not looking past it, and she’s no longer seeing him as “the face of the enemy,” she’s accepting him without judgement and telling him that this pain that he carries because of his scar is something that is not and never was his fault. She sees someone who needs help and she offers it.

As for Mai, @firelxdykatara wrote a great post that pointed out that it’s not even clear that Mai is supposed to be touching his scar, and I agree. She’s just touching him and the scar is just there. Which I guess you could say means she sees him as the same Zuko, but there are a couple of problems with this. One, the fact that the writers didn’t bother to flesh out her relationship with Zuko pre-series really puts a damper on this. We have no idea what their relationship was prior to them getting together in season three. All we know is that Mai thought he was kinda cute. What does “the same Zuko” mean to Mai? How does Mai feel about being away from him for three years? We don’t know, and in their very first scene as a couple Mai literally tells us, the audience, and Zuko that she doesn’t care to know, either.

The second issue is that he is NOT the same Zuko. He is not the same. He can never be the same. This is something that should be addressed between them, not only because it’s a major trauma that represents how his life has been drastically altered in the past three years, but because it would affect how they are intimate with each other. How does Zuko feel about the scar being touched? How does Mai feel about it? Is the scarred area overly sensitive? Does he have pain? Does he have nerve damage? How much vision/hearing/tactile sensation does he have on that side? All of those are things that would realistically affect their relationship. I don’t necessarily expect the show to address them but the point is this: he is not the same. The scar is a part of him. Disabilities/disfigurements are not something to look past. They are a part of the person. And in the case when someone acquires a disability, they will be the same in some ways but different in others, and that’s something that a romantic partner has to accept. Unfortunately for Mai, the narrative mostly uses their relationship to show how Zuko is not the same as he was before and can never be, nor should he want to be.

[writing-for-me-at-this-point]

So this is my alternative ob!mc form! 

I got inspired after listening to elfen lied opening, Lilium. Especially the metal cover (it’s a great song if you search for inspiration in sufferement or just vibe with religious themes). I placed some pics on the left for reference. 

Here’s some notes: 

Since mc’s “magic” comes from the environment and not from within, i thought that the overblot (the thing with the bottle head) itself should be external as well. Basically, the overblot it’s an extension of mc and not another being. I hope this makes sense.

On a more symbolic note, you could say that mc not only accepts the negativity and darkness but also embraces it. Another meaning that could apply is how the yanderes “love” became so toxic to mc that it’s basically trapping them down and leeching the life out of them.

The overblot it’s connected to mc and it will die if separated from it’s source of power, so that’s why it’s constantly “cuddling” mc. It can change any part with those of a previous dormleader’s overblot. The blot that’s dripping from the waist down can create blotlings.

I didn’t stylized mc much, but that’s because i wanted to leave it to the imagination if their form changes as well. You want to make mc look more human? Go ahead. You want to make them more monster-like? Valid.

On a more superficial note, i wanted to see the yanderes reaction to this ob form 😂 “WHY IS THAT THING HUGGING YOU SO CLOSELY???”, “God i wish that were me”, “Darling, if you wanted to make me jealous, you got it. I’m FUCKING JEALOUS”.

That’s it! Thank you for listening to my nonsense. You can add more stuff if you want! 😘😘😘😘

[julgandomusicapontocom]

[S01EP08 - ENG - Trans] - instinct part 1, OnlyOneOf

Vignette: You are listening to Julgando Música Ponto Com, podcast where the MCs, Matteco and Nabi, share their opinions about musical projects. Follow our page on Instagram, @/julgandomusica, and also follow the official page of this podcast on the platform you are listening to. Without further ado, let’s start!

@/deusamabi: Long time no see, guys! [laugh] We are back, once more, and today our reaction is about the EP Instinct part1 of the kpop group OnlyOneOf. The group debuted in 2019 with the MV Savanna, and nowadays is composed of six members: KB, Rie, Yoojung, Junji,Mill and Nine. The group’s ex member and leader, Love, unfortunately left it in August, 2021. OnlyOneOf’s label is 8D Entertainment, which is a relatively small label, more known for being Hyewon’s (IZ*ONE) label.    

@/mattequinho: That’s right! Well, the choreography of one of the songs in the EP went viral on Tiktok, which brought more attention to the group. However, a lot of the fans who got into it after libidO became viral disappeared as fast as they showed up.   

@/deusamabi: For the kpop fans' happiness, we listened to more than only one song of the boys [laugh] and we thought it was fair to make an episode about them.

1st Track - libidO

@/deusamabi: The first track is “libidO”. Well, this is THE song. It’s the EP’s title track and it is also the one with polemic choreography we were talking about before. It’s just that this choreography is nothing if we compare it with the song itself. With only isolated parts, we might think it is just a regular pop song, however all the characteristics in it, mixed together, make it something more exotic than what we are used to in the kpop world. Actually, I wouldn’t call it “exotic”, but something that carries well the weight of the group’s own colours. An interesting fact is that when I was searching more about them, I read that they like to name their music as some kind of alternative/contemporary R&B, which explains a lot about how and why they sound like that.

@/mattequinho: Dude, what’s with this intro? This effect comes from far away with the drums… It’s lit! Then the pre chorus comes and the rhythm makes me realize that I would need more time to think about this track, because it brings several turning points, right? After 4 or 5 times that I listened to it, I started to get used to the transitions and didn’t think they sounded so different during the song anymore, you know.

@/deusamabi: Yeah, I think that while we listen to it more and more, we get used to the rhythm, and even though we get used to it, it doesn’t turn boring. I guess I listened it a thousand times, the only thing different from the first time I did it, it’s that my understanding of the song seems deeper and now I know how to sing the lyrics [laugh]. Speaking of lyrics, two amazing artists composed this one, Haeil and Xydo, who aren’t only lyricists but also producers and singers. We are gonna make an “aesthetic playlist”, including songs performed by both of them. We’re gonna add it to our episode’s official post on Tumblr, so you guys can check it out.

@/mattequinho: That’s right, guys! Now we have a Tumblr account for our podcast. There we’re gonna post the episode’s transcriptions in Portuguese, also links to media and stuff we mention, as well as translations of the transcriptions to English. The account’s name is the same as here, “julgando música ponto com”, but the “ponto com” (dot com) is written in a literal way, once Tumblr doesn’t accept punctuation marks in the username [laugh].

@ /deusamabi: Don’t forget to follow us there. Okay, well, carrying on, other names involved in the composition and musical arrangement were: SQUAR, WOON, and LVPS, besides KB and Nine, members of OnlyOneOf. I think this crazy mix is responsible for the final result that makes us addicted to it. I love this song, to me it is faultless. The first times I heard it, I thought the rap parts were a little weird because it didn’t feel like they belonged to the song, but now I’m used to it and I don’t think like this anymore. Okay, now I’m gonna mention what, to me, is the song’s backbone: the bridge and all of Love’s background vocals, the ones where he says “want you to sing on my body”,  gosh that’s crazy! This verse is stuck in my head, it’s one of those things that… That we know even when we stop listening to it (and forget about the song), twenty years later, one day randomly it’s gonna show up in our minds again. 

@/mattequinho: Yeah! [laugh] That verse was a wise choice.

2nd Track - instinct

@/mattequinho: The second track is called “instinct”... Friends,another great intro? What’s this? A movie? I’m sure that the people who produced this EP got very good credentials. The drastic change in the bridge left me asking myself if it was already the next track, and that this sudden change was one of the group’s traits. I didn’t know how I’d suffer in the near future [laugh]. Oh and the one who sang in the bridge! Amazing voice, right. (He’s talking about Love)

@/deusamabi: Man, this track is insane, first because it’s the same name as the EP’s name but it isn’t the title track, it doesn’t have an MV, also it’s super short, with only two minutes and twenty seconds. As Matteco mentioned, there’s a drastic change in the bridge that turns the song upside down before it goes back to the same vibe as before and then, out of nowhere, it ends. When you least expect it ends and that’s it. I feel like this track is some kind of “wake up, girl!” (this is a reference to a Brazilian entertainment program’s famous phrase) just to wake up the listeners [laugh] after the crazy trip that was libidO. The electric guitar at the beginning confirms my “wake up, boy!” theory… Guys… “Wake up, boy!”? What?” [laugh] [editor’s beep cut can be heard].

@/mattequinho: I made a comment about the producers previously, and well, a big crew participated in this one here. There aren’t any of the members or producers mentioned before. In this track, we’ve got: Le’mon, Jaden Jeong, Billie Jean (BADD), JJ Evans, K. Chozen, Candace Sosa and Irun; the last one belongs to the group of extremely anonymous producers that we can’t find any information about on the internet, and they must for sure be Ed Sheeran disguised [laugh].

@/deusamabi: Yeah, because we know that Ed Sheeran secretly has been making all of the kpop songs [laugh]. Anyway, guys, we didn’t find much information about Irun, but the other names are relatively well known in the industry; people who made songs for big groups like: LOONA, NCT, EXO, Red Velvet, Girls Generation, etc. So it’s not a surprise the song is good. Going back to the reaction, the key points I’d like to highlight are Mill’s background vocals, Nine’s voice that caught my attention a lot…And as I am a simple person, my favourite quote in the song, “I don’t want your love tonight 아프니까”, which we can translate as “because it hurts I don’t want your love tonight” (she gave the translation in Portuguese). Besides the fact that this sounded heavenly with Junji’s voice, I felt well represented. It’s a message of strength and resilience, guys! Sexy people also can be cheated on, let’s be more empathetic.

@/mattequinho: Right! [laugh]

3rd Track - byredO

@/mattequinho: The third track is… Wait a moment, I'm gonna let the airplane fly away. [laugh] Can you hear me?

@/deusamabi: Yeah… wait, who passed by? John? (The word airplane in Portuguese sounds like the Brazilian version of the name John)

@/mattequinho: [laugh] The airplane.

@/deusamabi: [laugh] I swear I was like “what’s John doing at your house?” [laugh]. Kisses, John, kisses.

@/mattequinho: [laugh] Kisses, John! The third track is “byredO”. And that’s it, let’s stop it! I’m tired of complimenting all of this EP’s intros. The whistle gave me the feeling that the previous track is continuing in this one (in some kind of way), because “instinct” kinda has a country vibe(?), so putting “byredO” after it was a great choice. Wow, the R&B vibe killed me, this was my favourite song at first and it still is nowadays. I’d like to add how the explosive chorus is pleasant to listen to, and that’s it, this song’s fault is that it ends.

@/deusamabi: Right, here we have again lyrics by Haeil and Xydo, the composition is by both of them, as well as KB, Nine, senjí and Nap!er; the arrangement is by KB, Nine and Nap!er too. I think the song’s concept is interesting because it seems like there’s a vibe recap of “libidO”. Matteco talked about the whistle giving a continuation feeling, I guess it isn’t just that, the whistle is also the keypoint of the song [laugh]; it’s what makes the chorus addicting. I’m jealous because I don’t know how to whistle! [laugh] I gotta keep the feeling while singing just the “woo woo hoo hoo” part. About the track’s title [laugh], I hope they’re being paid for it, because it was a great advertisement for the Swedish brand, “byredo; I even had an episode when I wanted to buy a byredo perfume, but the lack of money stopped me [laugh]. If someone wants to send it to us as a gift, you can send a DM on Twitter or Instagram [laugh].

@/mattequinho: Right, I guarantee that we’re gonna answer very quickly [laugh].

@/deusamabi: Yeah! [laugh] Well, I think having put this name on a song that basically talks about fragr-... fra-gran-ces, I don’t know how to say this word guys, “fragrances”! I’ll start again [laugh]. It’s not my fault that I don’t know how to say “fragrances”! [laugh]

@/mattequinho: [laugh] This episode is going so well, man!

@/deusamabi: [laugh] Well, putting this name on a song that basically talks about “frÁ-grÁn-ces”? [laugh] and that has all this sensual atmosphere, was very witty, I simply loved it. It is also my favourite in the album, the quote “spray for me, spray for me every night” is top tier. I find it hilarious how easy it is to mishear it though, sometimes it kinda sounds like they’re saying “pray for me, pray for me every night”... (here Nabi makes a wrong translation of this quote into Portuguese, she actually translates it to something that means “pray to me” and not “pray for me”). By the way, sometimes when the song comes to my mind and I start to sing it, I end up saying “pray for me” then I stop and think “gosh, what is this that I’m singing?” [laugh].

@/mattequinho: Oh no! [laugh] Uh, I’m dead.

4th Track - tear Of gOd

@/deusamabi: Okay, so the fourth track is “tear Of gOd”, the lyrics are by Jaden Jeong and Le’mon once more, reinforcing the boys’ title as LOONA’s cousins. There are also XIMON, or “Simon”, I’m not sure of how we should pronounce it because I only saw videos where he was spelling the name, but it’s Hojin guys, who worked in that webseries, Woomanna, together with some of the OnlyOneOf’s members and the girls from LOONA. In the composition and arrangement, we’ve got SWEETCH and N!ko.

@/mattequinho: Man, what are the drums in this track? They’re everything. I was already enjoying and finding the chorus super addicting, then it comes the “3, 2, 1, drip it” and another transition happens, this time I might say that this one is which I like the most; and the rap verse+the voice are top tier and reminded me of  Big Sean’s vibe. Speaking about quality, I think this is the best, because it has a little bit of everything, including another addicting catchphrase: “I can’t stop my lust” [laugh].

@/deusamabi: That quote is amazing [laugh]... Okay, for a very long time this one was my favourite from the album, but with time I realized that the reason behind it’s not only because it’s a good track, but also because it’s easy to like its structure. So, after some months listening to it, I easily can imagine other groups performing the song well without losing artistic value. It’s a song made to be good, it doesn’t matter who is performing, what can be great but also can be not that good, if… If you compare with other tracks that have features which match better and in a unique way with the group. That’s it for me, I love it but compared with the other three it’s the least “OnlyOneOf”. However, although, nevertheless, I’d like to give my most sincere compliments to everyone’s voices, they sounded extremely pleasant along the track; highlighting Rie, who gave it all. 

Final comments | Marks | Merchan

@/mattequinho: Now we got to the final comments of this episode. First, I’d like to thank Nabi for making me listen to this project, it was really surprising and cool. It made me want to listen to other things by the group, which by the way I didn’t yet [laugh]. I’m still not ready, and just after we started to react and write the script for this EP, the group released a single [laugh], and I’m zero percent ready to check it out. So, my final mark is 8, and my favourite song is “byredO”, which was love at first listening, and it’s still number one in my heart.  

@/deusamabi: [laugh] My final comment is that this work is simply very good [laugh]. Guys, seriously, it’s hard to judge it or go into deep details here, because it’s something consistent, fulfills the concept well, it makes sense, sounds good, and tells a story. Surprising no one, my final mark is 9.5 and my favourite track are all of them [laugh], but I’ll choose “byredO” to make the whole nation happy. Oh… [Matteco laughs and says “yeah” interrupting her] You got happy, right? Naughty [laugh] (it’s a meme calling someone “naughty” like this in Brazilian Portuguese). I’d like to mention some curious facts for those who just got to know about the group after this reaction. In libidO’s MV description on YouTube there is… There is basically the explanation of the story, which is told by this album, so guys they already gave you the plot for the fanfiction ready, you just need to write, okay? One more thing, the physical album has four other tracks, very interesting [laugh], but we won’t go into detail, if you’re curious, buy the album and listen to them [laugh]. 8D Creative please come sponsor us [laugh].

@/mattequinho: Right! [laugh]

[Album gets a cow stamp (it tells that the work was judged as top tier). Cow’s sound effect can be heard]

Recommendations | Virtual Hugs | Ending

@/mattequinho: Now as a recommendation, I’ve got the tv show “Only Murders in The Building”, which tells the story of three neighbours who are addicted to the same criminal podcast, and because of that they decide to get together and try to solve a crime that just happened in their bulding. I recommend it because the main interesting point of this series is: we don’t just solve the main mystery, but we try to figure it out about the main character’s own mysteries. And my virtual hug goes to our friend, Mirian, who just came back home after a year and a half of a mission in another state.

@/deusamabi: Yay, Mirian, welcome back [laugh], woof woof woof. My recommendation is a k-drama that I got addicted to last month, its name is Imitation; it’s there on Viki for those who got the Standard pass, those who don’t have it can do the same as I did, and enjoy the trial week for free before canceling the subscription [laugh]. You can marathon it all, there are just twelve episodes. Well, it’s a simple plot, but at the same time I feel like it should be done; it shows a lot of the problemas idols face, there’s a classic couple with little chemistry, happy ending and a cast filled with idols. I cried in the last episode, recommed a lot. And my virtual hug today goes to… You guys who are listening to us. 

[Eding musical theme]

@/deusamabi: That’s it for today guys, don’t forget to follow us on social media and turn on the notifications of our podcast there on the platform you’re listening to. See you later! Woof woof woof!

@/mattequinho: Woof woof woof! 

@/deusamabi: And it died.

[Editor’s beep cut]

[join-the-joywrite]

Can you hear me screaming, please don't leave me?

Response to a prompt from @teammightypen, prompt list here.

T, you're gonna absolutely annihilate everyone with this request alone, let alone whatever the hecc I've done to it, I--

1. "stay alive, please."

37. "Can you brush my hair?"

Julie coughed nearly three times on her way down to the studio. She had to take a pause near the studio doors, taking a few deep, slow breaths to ease the burn in her lungs. She was still bent over, hands on her knees, when Reggie walked out to her.

"Julie? Julie, you're not supposed to be walking this far. C'mon let's get you back to the house."

Julie accepted Reggie's help in righting herself, but she shook her head. "No. I came all the way here."

"Oh . . . Oh. Okay, let's get you inside."

"I can walk," Julie tried to protest, head spinning for a second as Reggie swept her off her feet.

"You've walked enough. Can you even tell if my eyes are open or closed?"

Julie squinted at him. "Stop moving your head so fast."

Reggie shook his head and turned back to the garage. "I thought as much."

When Alex caught sight of her, his reaction was pretty much the same as Reggie's.

"Julie, you know you shouldn't be walking so much. Dr Alonso specifically told you."

"I know," Julie said, half leaning against Reggie once he set her down again. "I know but. . ."

Reggie and Alex followed Julie's gaze up to the loft when she tilted her head in that direction.

"Oh," Alex said softly, in almost the exact same tone Reggie had used. "Okay. Reggie and I are gonna go find your dad and Flynn okay? H-how long do you want us to take?"

Julie thought about it, wondering just how selfish she'd be called for it. "An hour?"

"An hour?!" Reggie whispered. "That's it? No. No no no no no. I'm not going. I -- I'm not."

"Reg, I can't look for them myself. Willie's already looking out for Carlos and he's hiding from Caleb. I can't ask him to parade around with me."

Reggie stared at Julie.

"I'll be fine. I promise. I'll be okay. It's just Luke."

Reluctantly, Reggie stepped out of the studio behind Alex.

"An hour?" he asked softly. "It can't-- we can't leave her alone for an hour. What if he won't look at her?"

"He will," Alex said. "He won't be able to live with himself if he doesn't talk to her."

Back inside, Julie began the slow climb up to the loft. She was breathless when she reached the top.

"Hey."

Luke didn't turn around, but Julie could hear his pencil scratching in the notebook. Julie leaned against the handrail, gripping the wood tight.

"Luke, ignoring me isn't going to fix everything. It's not gonna make you feel better. Trust me."

Luke stood up quickly, the notebook and pencil clattering on the floor as he whirled around and shouted, "It's not fair!"

Julie would have been started if she wasn't expecting it. Instead, she smiled sadly. "I know it isn't."

Luke struggled for something to say. Eventually, his gaze settled on Julie's bushier-than-normal hair. "You look like a mess," he blurted.

A light laugh left Julie's lips. "I appreciate you not commenting on my hideous clothes."

"I think they're cute. Who doesn't love . . . what is that? Dinosaurs? Splotches?"

Julie shrugged and took a few steps towards Luke. Even the slightest bit of exertion left her weak and breathless. "I haven't really found the energy to be maintaining all these glorious curls."

"I can tell," Luke teased.

Julie knew he was still trying to avoid the very large elephant in the room but she couldn't blame him. She wanted to do the same. She held out the hairbrush to Luke. "Can you brush my hair?"

"Of course. Come on."

Like Reggie, Luke didn't pay heed to Julie's protests and carried her the very short distance between the handrails and the massive pile of clothes and cushions that he'd been resting on. He knelt behind Julie and gently brushed over her hair, careful not to pull too hard.

"There's a song in my dream box," Julie said softly, closing her eyes. "For you."

"Julie, don't--"

"I wrote it a while back but I've just been so scared to show it to anyone. Will you at least read it?"

"Okay," Luke said eventually.

"You've never brushed my hair before, have you?"

Luke shook his head, despite being behind Julie. "Usually Reggie helps you with it."

"Mm. You're softer. Will you do it again tomorrow?"

It was harder to ignore the truth with her sitting in front of him, pretending as though tomorrow would still be there. "Mhm," was all he could manage.

For a while, there was silence in the studio. Luke parted and detangles Julie's curls slowly. Mostly to prolong the moment she would turn back around and he would have to look her in the eyes and accept what fate had in store for them, but also to maintain the gentle touch. Julie was already hurting so much. He didn't see the need to pull at her hair. He memorised the feel of her hair between his fingers. He committed to memory every single smile he had ever seen Julie give. With each new section of hair he detangled, Luke thought of one more thing about Julie that he loved.

When he was nearly done, Julie spoke again.

"You'll play again, won't you? After? You'll pick up your guitar again, right? For me?"

If Luke's heart still beat, he would have felt it stop completely. If he still breathed, he would have felt the air leave his lungs in a rush. Instead, his entire body froze over and his brain seemed to stop processing the world around him.

"I can't -- I can't do this."

Julie grabbed his hand before he could stand fully. "You'll hate yourself if you leave now."

As much as he wanted to deny it, he knew she was right. He sat down heavily beside Julie and leaned against the wood behind him. Julie, with no hesitation, crawled into his lap and rested her head on his shoulder.

"I don't want to be here," Luke confessed quietly.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

Julie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For the first time in weeks, her lungs didn't burn with the effort. Being this close to Luke after three days of not even seeing him was a relief unlike anything else, though.

Luke listened to Julie breathe deeply. It was a sound he'd almost forgotten.

"Stay alive," he begged, "please."

"I wish I could. You know I do."

Luke wrapped both arms around her, holding her close to his chest. It was just the two of them and Luke knew Julie had planned for it to be like this. Just the two of them in the eleventh hour.

"Please," Luke whispered again, one hand pushing back the hair he had just brushed. "Stay."

Julie shifted slightly, sighing as she settled comfortably. "I wrote a song for you," she mumbled.

Luke didn't remind her that she'd already mentioned it. "Yeah?"

"Mhm. It's in my dream box. When you . . . when you get it, will you look after everything else in there?"

Luke nodded even though Julie's eyes were closed. He sniffed and swallowed the tears. "Yeah. I promise."

"Thank you."

"Julie?"

Her eyebrows lifted the tiniest bit. "Hm?"

"I love you."

She smiled. "I know." Another deep breath. Luke stilled in frozen fear that it had been her last. "I love you too."

He kissed her forehead. He sighed, a heavy sound that sagged his shoulders. "I love you," he said again, pulling her even closer if possible. "It's okay."

"What is?"

"I'm okay. We'll be okay. You -- you can go."

Julie's final breath left her with a soft hum and a smile on her lips. Luke held her close, tears soaking up in her hair.

Months later, when he was certain he would manage it, Luke opened Julie's dream box. And he cried again.

This has been an alternate, cut scene from the Hold On au ........ how else was I supposed to handle an angst and a fluff prompt???

[vickyvicarious]

"Over The Hills and Far Away" by Patty Gurdy and Parker/Hardison/Eliot?

(Fic ask game: send me a song and a ship, and I'll write something for them.)

Ooh, that song is gorgeous! Here's a link for anyone who wants to listen while they read.

So, I know the song's actually about cheating, but I don't like writing that, and the emotion in it took me in a different direction. Pining Eliot angst incoming...

.

over the hills

.

He wants to leave, sometimes. It wasn’t a lie, what he told Sophie that day; not what he said to Nate either. This is where he belongs, these are the people he will protect til the day he dies. He needs them. He loves them.

He loves them like a door slamming shut.

There’s no escape from this - he’s tried often enough, but it’s clear nothing is going to work when he’s still around them near every day. He still meets other people, but none of it is ever going to last, and every time he finds himself flaunting those short-lived relationships like he’s looking for a reaction he hates himself a little more. It isn’t like they mind.

He tells himself that he doesn’t think about them. Tells Hardison, once. It’s a lie. A pathetic, obvious lie - after Sophie and Nate retire, they’re almost all he thinks about. And no matter how much he tells himself that’s just part of the job, or their friendship… well, he knows better. He knows they know better, too.

Parker sits next to him, her side touching his. Hardison hands him a coffee first thing in the morning. They invite him to join him on what he’s pretty sure was supposed to be a movie date, because he got beat up more than usual on the last job and they want to keep an eye on him - not that they admit to their reasoning. Hardison steals his phone for a day and when he gets it back they’ve got personalized ringtones set and he has several Mr. Punchy emoticons replacing the usual smiley faces. Parker’s cereal starts showing up in all of his kitchens no matter how often he replaces it with healthier alternatives.

Eliot wants to leave.

He’s been across the world a dozen times over. He’s seen backalleys and small towns and military bases and bunkers aplenty, knows at least twenty-three safe houses he could hole up in that even Hardison wouldn’t be able to find him. He wouldn’t have to do even that: every year on a hitter gets harder, and as good as he is Eliot’s started aching more often than not. He could explain himself and they’d accept it. They would let him go, if he asked. They love him enough for that.

Their love would follow him anywhere he went.

If his love is the door, their love is the walls surrounding him. Comforting and caging at once, impossible to escape, impossible to ever deny.

Every time he argues with Hardison and feels it slip into flirting, he feels guilty. Every time he meets Parker’s eyes for a little too long and something unspoken passes between them. Every time he watches them kiss one another, or visits them early in the morning and finds them still sleepy and soft in their pajamas. He cooks them breakfast, those days, and Hardison leans on the counter slowly sipping orange juice and watching Eliot cook, and Parker tries to grab sausages out of the frying pan before they’re done, and they both keep touching him in a million little ways, a hand on his elbow, a pat on his shoulder, a hug, a smile that lodges in his heart, and they smell warm and soft and of one another and he always, always wants -

Eliot remembers that day in D.C., after the train. His shoulder and leg still slowly bleeding, knowing he needed to rebandage them but entirely too tired to care. He had been ready to just go to sleep with the lights on, still dressed and drinking whatever the minibar had to offer for dinner. Parker and Hardison crowded into his hotel room and took care of him. They’d almost just lost one another but they never left him alone: Parker cut his clothes away and cleaned and rebandaged him; Hardison held his hand and kept talking the entire time. They ordered in food and made sure he ate, helped him get dressed in something comfortable and loose, kept telling him to drink water, situated him firmly in the center of his bed and then laid down on either side. They kissed each other goodnight right over him - and then paused, looked down at him for a long long moment as Eliot’s heart pounded and his throat closed up and he felt every single space they touched him.

Hardison kissed him first. Parker just watched. It was short, chaste, and Eliot didn’t respond in any way, but afterwards Hardison smiled at him and laid back down and Parker was still watching Eliot’s face. She looked until Hardison turned the lamp off and then several minutes longer.

Her kiss, a soft touch of lips to his cheek in the dark, felt like the utmost secret.

The next morning set the tone for the rest of their lives: none of them said a word about it. Eliot couldn’t. He couldn’t, he knew he never would, knew he wasn’t ready. Wasn’t deserving.

Eliot can’t leave. He can’t, he won’t, he doesn’t ever truly want to leave them. He will stay with them, forever and as long after that as he can manage. Every time he finds himself dreaming of running, of putting hills and mountains and oceans between himself and the love they so freely and steadily offer, he knows it won’t happen.

He’ll stay with them. He will protect them and follow them; feed them and let them trick him into date nights and let them touch him in a million little ways. He’ll keep them waiting, keep himself wanting, every day and every night as the years pass by, and he won’t ever leave.

He doesn’t deserve them. He can’t accept them. He’s terrified to want, let alone to try - and it isn’t fair but he’ll keep himself caged this way for decades if need be. He’ll let them keep hoping.

He’ll let himself keep remembering that night. Hardison’s warmth, Parker’s knowing. Their lips on his so quiet and simple and impossible, impossible.

Eliot won’t ever leave, because his love is a prison.

But their love, their love is the promise of freedom. They wait for him, like it’s inevitable that one day he’ll be released, like he will return to them no matter how far the distance.

He wants to believe them so much that sometimes, it feels like fact.

.

.

I thought it would be interesting to explore a dynamic where Eliot knows they want him to join them. And he wants to, desperately, but he feels unworthy, like he'll ruin it all, just afraid in ways he can't really even put words to, so he refuses to acknowledge it. But he can't ever just close the door on joining them ('wanting to leave' in this, a failure because he never could and because he knows they'd still love him anyway), because of how much he wants to, and because he hopes that someday he'll be ready. Meanwhile, they accept him in any way he'll be with them. At some point, this will end. Eliot will be unable to deny himself/them any longer, even if his doubts haven't all gone away. But for now, he's keeping himself locked in this 'prison' through his refusal to admit to what he feels is a betrayal (his inability to let them go, his certainty that he'd ruin it if he joined them).

Well, that was the concept at least! Not sure if I pulled it off, but in any case this is a lovely song.

[actonbellworks]

BTS and art-pop; a postmodern analysis of the album Love Yourself: Tear (2017)

this is an essay i wrote for a uni assignment, and i really wanted to post it here, so,,,

The closest definition of postmodern music, by Jonathan Kramer, in his 1996 essay Postmodern Concepts of Musical Time, is described in several characteristics. It is not a repudiation or a continuation of modernism, but contains aspects of both; it is, on some level, ironic, disregards the value of structural unity, and seeks to break down the distinctions between ‘highbrow’ and ‘lowbrow’ music. Postmodern music refuses to be cast into a specific mold, includes detailed references, is pluralistic and eclectic, but above all, it locates its meaning much more in the listener than it does in the actual music and performance. In his essay, Answering the Question: what is Postmodernism? Jean Francois Lyotard defines postmodernism as part of the modern, conceding to perhaps the most influential critic of Postmodernism, Jurgen Habermas, as he writes, “The postmodern would be that which, in the modern, puts forward the unpresentable in presentation itself…”. The phenomenon of the postmodern, as critics have tried to define it, exists in spite of a definition.

This leads us to another, far more important question; can we define ‘popular’ music as ‘postmodern’? Critics still hesitate to attribute the ‘postmodern’ or the ‘art-pop’ tag to mainstream popular music, because they view postmodernist music and art-pop as a genre that is inexorably linked with modernism, which implies that there has to be a predecessor for popular music to be classified as ‘postmodern’. In another definition, one that is, perhaps, far more closer to the hypothesis laid out by Kramer, is that Postmodernist music, and indeed, the postmodernist movement, developed as a reaction to modernism, and as such, incorporates the attributes of modernism as well as defies it to a certain extent.

The genre of K-pop has been popularised all over the world largely due to the influence of the seven-member band BTS (방탄소년단 in Korean), and their detailed musicality, which is perhaps showcased best in their third studio album, Love Yourself 轉 ‘Tear’, widely regarded as one of their most intricate works. True to the definition of postmodern music, the album smoothly shifts genres, sometimes in the gap of a single song, although there is a thematic, sometimes singular focus on the feelings of loss and loneliness. To centre a musical venture around the idea of love and loss is nothing new, perhaps, but ‘Tear’ refuses to play into any of the common tropes.

The term ‘postmodern’ contains an air of elitism with it, as it still refers to practices that developed as a reaction to the modernist methods of the twentieth century. It directly challenges the strict rules of modernist art, a return to pre-modernist era art techniques, and above all, it removes the boundaries between the “classical” and the “popular”. BTS has been termed as ‘popular music’ by critics, and while the label ‘popular music’ is considered restrictive, for many music critics, ‘Tear’ represents how the genre can be pushed to its limits, moving beyond the limitations set by the industry and by music critics in general.

Perhaps one of the most dynamic songs in the LP’s tracklist is the title track, “FAKE LOVE”, the music video for which begins with silence, and the track is completed by a jagged guitar riff that cuts off abruptly to a scene of the seven members, dressed in robes and masks that look eerily reminiscent of the early Greek comedic tradition, in which every character is identifiable by their masks and their choice of costumery. The teaser for the music video, interestingly, had the piece, Waltz in A-flat major, OP. 9, No. 1 by Frédéric Chopin, also termed as ‘The Farewell Waltz’ or ‘Valse de l’adieu’. Chopin’s music and BTS’ song both move in circles, without reaching a conclusion. Chopin’s waltz moves in ¾ beats, until it ends abruptly, and FAKE LOVE reiterates the same line,

Love you so bad, love you so bad

널 위해 예쁜 거짓을 빚어낸

Love it's so mad, love it's so mad

날 지워 너의 인형이 되려 해

널 위해서라면 난

슬퍼도

Which loosely translates to “love you so bad/ I create a beautiful lie for you/ love you so mad/ I try to become your doll by erasing myself.” Both pieces move around the idea of loss, with neither reaching anywhere fruitful. Chopin’s waltz ends where it had begun, in the middle of his heartbreak, and BTS end their song with the refrain of

기쁜 척 할 수가 있었어

널 위해서라면 난

아파도 강한 척 할 수가 있었어

사랑이 사랑만으로 완벽하길

내 모든 약점들은 다 숨겨지길

이뤄지지 않는 꿈속에서

피울 수 없는 꽃을 키웠어

Which again, translates to “for you, I could pretend to be happy even when sad/ for you I could pretend I was strong even when I was hurt/ Wishing that love is perfect as itself/Wishing all my weakness is hidden/In a dream that can’t come true/I raised a flower that couldn’t bloom”.

A particular characteristic of art-pop music and alternative music in general, is the recurring motif that runs through one or more songs. In ‘Tear’, the septet continue to use masks, in order to symbolise what is the loss of one’s self, in the process of another, perhaps more explicitly shown in their introductory music video to the album, ‘Singularity’, where singer Kim Taehyung (using the stage moniker V) sings about losing his voice, trapped in a lake, donning a mask that obscures half of his face, losing all his individuality. ‘Singularity’ is perhaps one of the most complicated songs to translate from Korean, as the songwriter, RM, lays down visual clues of what it feels like to wake up from a dream, only to find oneself trapped. The music video carries forward the baroque imagery, as well as the heavy classical influences in the slow progression of the track; it conjures the powerful imagery of being trapped underwater ourselves, in the lyrics

Tell me 내 목소리가 가짜라면

날 버리지 말았어야 했는지

Tell me 고통조차 가짜라면

그때 내가 무얼해야 했는지

Loosely translated, it refers to someone trapped underwater, who doesn't feel as though their voice belongs to themselves. ‘Singularity’ wonders whether or not it is worth it to sacrifice one’s individuality to mould themselves to fit in. Postmodern art talks about the truth of the artist, especially how difficult it is to maintain one’s sincerity to survive, be it in a relationship, or in the music industry, a sentiment expressed by the septet in the fifth track of the album, ‘Paradise’ (낙원 ), where rappers Suga and j-hope express their dissatisfaction with the world through an intertwined verse,

누군 이렇게 누군 저렇게 산다면서

세상은 내게 욕을 퍼붓네

세상은 욕할 자격이 없네

꿈을 꾸는 법이 무엇인지

(“saying some are living like this,some are living like that/ the world pours curses at me/ the world has no right to pour curses at me/ for it has never even taught me how to dream '')

The song ‘Paradise’ is not only about the futility of the dreams that we are forced to accept and work towards, it also serves as a reminder of the society that we continue to subject the future generations to, in the capitalistic pursuit of wealth and correlating it to happiness, we forget that perhaps, humanity is not defined by wealth. ‘Paradise’ sets a reminder that it is okay to pause the world to remind ourselves that the world does not exist in spite of us, it exists because of us.

Perhaps the strangest, most compelling song on the entire album is the final song, ‘OUTRO: TEAR’. A rap track featuring the three rappers, it has been one of the most lyrically intimidating songs. A direct continuation of the thought process in ‘singularity’, “OUTRO: TEAR’ also muses upon the threads of a broken relationship, and the precipice upon which it all began.

For music critics, the opening six bars of the outro are reminiscent of the sombre tunes in Rachmaninoff’s piano concertos, which reach a crescendo and give way to RM’s introductory verse. It is a song that has remorse at the very core of it, writing for one’s lost love, for which there is still regret. For RM and Suga, this comes with the words

어쩜 내가 너를 사랑했던 적이 아예 없는 것 같아서

(because it felt like maybe I had never loved you anyway)

심장이 찢겨져 차라리 불 태워줘

고통과 미련 그 무엇도 남지 않게끔

(“my heart breaks, please rather burn it, so that the pain and the lingering love disappears”) while RM denotes his regret with rhyming sequences that linger, and for Suga, it is in a series of archaic, perhaps even frightening metaphors to his breaking heart. Both the rappers are talking about their failed relationship, with music, their friends, and their love, how it has an everlasting effect on their lives, one that will never go away, even with acceptance of their fate.

Written at the brink of disbandment, perhaps the coda by j-hope is where the song hits the hardest. The most lyrically dense section of the song is the coda, where j-hope lays down a flurry of rhymes and rhythms, shaken at the prospect of leaving music altogether. Although the song stems from a personal story for the septet, it deals with the very real anxiety and fear an artist has, of having to separate from their art. For j-hope it is akin to a break-up, a sundering with the very people he had thought would be by his side forever, and he writes, “이별은 내겐 그 순간들뿐”(goodbye, for me is only there, just at those moments). He writes,

넌 내 시작과 끝That is all

(“You are my beginning, end, that is all”)

And to him, and to all artists, art is supreme, and the thought of parting from the art that has given them so much, would be akin to severing them from their soulmate. For many music critics, the outro is the most complex song they have heard form the septet, with some going so far as to naming it a magnum opus.

In Love Yourself 轉 ‘Tear’, BTS puts the spotlight on the human condition; something which is fallible, something which is dependant upon others. Postmodernism, and postmodernist art, especially, talks about the complex aspects of humanity, forcing people to pay attention to the world and to their own selves. It isn't the music videos with homages paid to Romantic era composers, neither is it the layered verses with the double entendres of lyrical meanings. ‘Tear’ is a postmodern work of art because it covers multiple aspects of the human condition, while also harkening back to the music that inspires artists to create; and the stories they tell in ‘Tear’ are universal.

(trans cr to @doolsetbangtan)

[airi-p4]

Thursday - Alternative ending

I couldn’t give Lukanette an unhappy ending, so here’s chapter 2 to fix it.

Chapter 1

AO3

_______________________________________

Luka blinked at a blurry memory. Or instinct. Something indescriptible alerted him the instant his feet touched the ground out the metro. For a second, he could see a flashback of death crossing his mind. Shivers took over his body and his inner voice urged him to take action: ‘save her’.

Not wasting any moment and before Luka could actually think, the alarm of the doors that announced their closure soon started and Luka's hand straightened to grab Marinette's wrist and pull her body out of the train, just before the doors fully closed.

"Let's skip the first hour" he mischievously grinned, pulling her through the platform, passing next the old couple they had previously offered their seats to.

Out of surprise, Marinette couldn't answer, but she was more than happy to follow him upstairs and out to the street- or whenever he was willing to take her- with a shy happy smile on her face.

"I know I should have asked you if you wanted to come first, sorry for that", Luka turned his head back to her, not letting go of her hand.

"My classes don't start until 25 minutes from now. I can make it on foot, if I wanted to go"

"Do you want to? I can walk you there, if you want" he offered, apologetically.

"I prefer to skip the first hour with you" Marinette blushed with a wide clumsy smile, squeezing his hand.

A loud noise and an earthquake distracted them as they moved to a park nearby.

"An earthquake? That's unusual" Luka said, catching Marinette for the third time of the day. "Marinette?"

'I'm ok! I just tripped". Luka's hands surrounding her were making her knees weak. "Thank you".

“Clumsy as ever. You’re so cute” he casually commented, making Marinette's face flush red. "I haven't properly introduced myself, right? My name is Luka Couffaine. I'm 19 and I'm studying at that music conservatoire across the park. What's your full name, Marinette? How old are you?"

"My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I'm 17 years old. I'm in my last year of lycée..." She shyly said.

"Dupain-Cheng...?" Luka blinked twice, remembering. "Oh, like the bakery, of course! The best in Paris. That's why you smell so sweet. My sister is a faithful customer of yours" he fondly smiled.

"She is? I help at the counter sometimes, maybe I know her?" Her curiosity showed.

"Her name is Juleka. Your same age. Purple long hair, red eyes, goth clothes. Sometimes accompanied by a little short-haired blond girl with a high-pitched voice..."

"No way! She's your sister?" She exclaimed in surprise. "Of course I know her! She's so beautiful I'm always distracted staring at her that she has to repeat her order at least twice for me to finally catch it. She's kind enough not to mind it… Wow! I wish I had known she was your sister" she regretted a little.

"Yes, she's beautiful. But I think you're beautiful too. And definitely cuter.  May I ask you what your aspirations are, Marinette? With studies, with me…" Luka squeezed her hand, hopefully, waiting for her answer.

"I want to be a fashion designer... and I really like you… as for- really, really like you...”. she couldn't hide the blush on her face as she squeezed his hand back, reassuring Luka.

"Good. Because I really, really like you too, and I want to get to know you better, outside the metro, in our spare time. Would you like that? To date me… officially, I mean. As my girlfriend"

"Yes! I would love that... That's exactly what I want" Marinette smiled.

"Great" he stole one quick kiss from her, which she happily accepted. “What do you want to do? Is there anywhere you want to go?”

"Could I-… I would like to hear you play your guitar" she shyly asked.

Luka smiled widely. "Ok. I'll let you hear the first part of the song you inspired me to compose"

"You composed a song about me? Really?" Her eyes were opened in surprise and Luka giggled at her reaction.

"You made a big impact on me, Marinette. The way you literally fell on me after tripping at the stairs… how your feet tap impatiently at the floor, the way you stick your tongue out when you draw… You're adorable"

"How do you know that? You're never looking at me… you always look away at the glass…"

"I'm always looking at you. See?” he signaled at his black smartphone screen. “The window glass in the dark shows a reflection. I like to look at you from that reflection. I didn't want you to think I don't have shame for staring too much. I'm misunderstood enough with my appearance to make it even worse…" he explained.

"You were looking at me!? I didn't notice... I feel so stupid now…" she mumbled, covering her face with her hands.

"You're sweet, Marinette. And I really like that part of you." Luka smiled at her reaction. “Let me play you your song” He smiled, taking his guitar out of the case and strumming the strings of his guitar to create a sweet melody Marientte carefully listened to.

Suddenly, Marinette's phone vibrated, interrupting Luka’s song. "My parents! 5 missed calls!? Oh, no! They might know I’ve skipped school!"

"It's ok, Marinette. I'll take all the responsibility for that. You better answer the phone. I have a bad feeling..." Luka sounded alerted, and it showed when he didn't take his hand off her shoulder, as if he had to keep her close to protect her.

"Marinette!?" The voice at the other side of the line called in panic.

"Mom? I'm sorry I know I should be in class and-"

"Oh, Marinette! I'm so relieved! Are you ok? Are you injured anywhere?"

"Hm? No? What's going on?" Marinette blinked, confused.

At that moment, a big explosion followed, and a great amount of black smoke lifted to the sky.

Luka left his guitar to the side to hold Marinette as they stared in terror, unable to move, in silence. "No way…" he gasped, showing Marinette the column of smoke that rose from a few streets away. A Cataclysm- Chat Noir- Luka figured out moments later by checking the news on his phone. Marinette gasped and dropped her phone on the floor, speechless. Both of them got shivers at one though: Marinette would most likely be dead by now if Luka hadn't taken her with him.

Luka understood then the voice in his head: 'save her'. And he had done it. If destructive magic as ‘Cataclysm’ existed, other magic could exist too. He was very lucky, he realized. Luka held Marinette closer as she stared at the big fire some streets away for some minutes. Alarms and ambulances increased, and Luka felt the urge to go help, but he didn’t want to leave Marinette alone.

"It's ok, Marinette. I've got you. I won't let you get hurt” he reassured her. “I'll take you home. Classes are cancelled and you’ll be safer there" he offered her his hand, but she strongly grabbed his arm instead, scared and shocked 'I would be dead if it wasn't for Luka'

Marinette was terrified, but at the same time, she felt the same as Luka: she wanted to help. "Luka, let's go. Maybe we can help somehow" she suggested.

"It could be dangerous, Marinette. I don’t want to put you under risk"

"I know. But I can't stay here watching when I could be helpful instead". She gulped in determination and fear.

Luka was astonished. "Ok, but we're not going to expose ourselves to much danger. I would hate it if you get hurt. Promise?" Marinette nodded shyly. "Let's go!"

________________________

The new couple did what they could: Luka escorted people to the ambulances and helped to extinguish small fires, while Marinette helped the medical team and offered first aid to some of the victims. Luka made sure to never lose sight of her. She was tiny but strong, and Luka felt admiration and fascination. The teenage girl couldn't help but feel the same towards Luka's bravery as he helped people around non-stop. After a few minutes, more ambulances arrived and they left the rest to the professionals. Instead of going home right away, they first accompanied the old couple they met before at the metro to the hospital. They had passed out from smoke inhalation, but thankfully they could recover thanks to the teenagers help. "Thank you…" the Chinese old man thanked them when he recovered, and they sighed in relief.

When they stepped out of the hospital and observed the smoke column from before, they paralyzed in fear: the smoke had turned into letters, whose message could be clearly read: ‘This is just the beginning’. The couple got shivers at the threatening warning and Marinette couldn’t stop some tears from spilling from her eyes. On the other hand, Luka, worried and scared, swore to himself he would protect his girlfriend Marinette no matter what.

It was midday when they walked to the bakery, in silence. Marinette was trembling, in shock from the recent events and Luka made sure to keep holding her hand tightly. Her parents were waiting for her outside their bakery and desperately ran to hug their daughter as soon as they saw her.

“Marinette! I’m so glad you’re ok!” the mother cried. “I was so worried…”

“It’s thanks to Luka, mom. He saved my life” the teenager mumbled in gratitude, signaling them her boyfriend.

"Thank you for saving my daughter!" The Chinese woman exclaimed, hugging him in a grateful manner.

Luka could only nod and say to Marinette “I’ll come to see you tomorrow” before leaving. The thought of how she could have been dead by now if he hadn’t intervened never abandoning his head.

Later, when Luka returned home, he found an unknown hexagonal box on his bed. The same box also lay on the table in Marinette's room. Both of them examined their respective boxes, and from the moment they opened them onward, and the mysterious creatures explained themselves, they realized that the ‘life’ and ‘love’ saved that day came with a price needed to be paid back as superheroes under certain mandatory rules: superheroes until the defeat of Chat Noir and the rest of Paris’ villains.

And if Luka and Marinette were already starting something new, the events of that day tied them together forever.

FIN

[unproduciblesmackdown]

which bmc scenes make you the softest bc for me it's gotta be most of the stagedorks scenes ESPECIALLY a guy that i'd kinda be into. mostly bc of christine cause her and michael are my favs (i love them all sm though) but also bc of jeremy because he is a close second to both of them. also vimh but vimh makes me cry a lot although nowadays i can hardly watch one scene without at the very least tearing up. anyways yeah which ones make you soft

i simply rewatched bmc and took notes for this and really got off track at points in the sense of sticking to What Makes You Softest but that’s how it goes babey

ACT ONE - in mts when jeremy is just having a whole moment being smitten in christine's presence while she's inelegantly picking herself up off the floor and smearing on lip balm and adjusting a skirt wedgie - jeremy and michael just being default that glad to meet each other in the middle of a random schoolday - michael hyping up jeremy's crush on christine and just encouraging this momentum to get jeremy to sign up for the play - ilpr.....that christine stops after like, the first two verses and goes back to her book b/c she doesn't figure someone's looking to listen to her beyond that but then she sees jeremy's still 110% paying attention and the whole rest of the song enfolds with increasing enthusiasm - jake doing that whole bit "all the pressure i feel to be the best at everything all the time" lmao classic stuff here, depressing content delivered in this humorousse way. charming moment - "leave me alone, i've had a bad day" - 2pg......when michael taps jeremy on the shoulder to get jeremy to join in on his choreo, which jeremy then does.....that michael asks if jeremy will be too cool for Video Games and jeremy just responds Emotionally Directly......we love the Favorite Person moment......that this song just ends with the two of them grooving 2gether god bless - jeremy stammering and Tics and Fidgeting when the squip remarks uponst it - jeremy delivering the Looking Pretty Sexy Brooke as awkwardly as possible and she's just like "thanks :)" - jeremy's own Theatricality coming out......hey hamlet - jeremy spinning around in place alternately addressing both brooke and the squip with "oh i'm supposed to meet my friend michael" - nice little detail wherein brooke signals for chloe to join in on her choreo - speaking of, v fond of the Moment jeremy is in on both their choreo......brooke sort of alarming jeremy with her whole attempted grande finale, straw and all, ft. the first instance of her messing with his hair so much she's just tugging his entire head around - cute that jake and rich have a sort of 2pg-esque handshake routine too - jeremy's "that's sad, what should i do" reaction re: jenna - rich's Earnest invitation to come over and play xbox... - "bonjour, jeremy" "ooh brooke!" and this whole exchange, her complimenting him, him laughing at "That Was French" and remembering to ask about pinkberry - love the whole choreo sequence/s in sync up, especially fond of his Moments with the girls, bumping hips with chloe (twice), hearing some Gossip from jenna, posing with brooke.... ;__; - the bowling alley performance art exchange before agtikbi ;____; - agtikbi......the glittery hearts choreo.....the whatever! the interlude or whatever!!! the I Guess A Part Of Me section hhhhoughhh ;o; ;o; ;o; ;o; ;o; that she pulls him into a hug and puts her head against his shoulder omggg ;_________; - brooke just trying to interact with jeremy the Right Way w/o any guidance on the bleachers and it continues to be awkward and funny....like comforting just his Leg while he converses w/his squip.....how she just ends up Physically pushing him around by the hands and head and shoulder and etc......whole situation here in upgrade.mp3 clearly less than Ideal but jeremy and brooke are nevertheless very cute individually And together - meanwhile jake also trying to genuinely Be With christine in upgrade is also charming lol, quitting archery to hang w/a girl like her.... - i always love when the Playful Shove brooke gives jeremy at "but at the mall, you looked at me" pushes him back a whole few steps....this moment of them truly Getting each other sans anyone else's interference.....tres magnifique - jeremy being That psyched to see michael for the first time (in like, less than one full day lol)....michael being That psyched just hearing that jeremy's cool scifi thing worked out after all - lgw ;_________________________; - like i'm some normal, handsome guy..... - giving us All that silence after "The Problem Has Always Been Me" - the whole bit where he launches into the "I'm Not The [series of insults]" and i've realized it's really especially a stretch to say i'm Soft for these moments in lgw but i Am vulnerable and that's its power. little 1" tall will roland on my screen here just made me shed a real tear doing That.....

ACT TWO - brooke's Howl at the end of her verse lmawooo - oughhh jeremy and brooke Greeting each other at the party too, jeremy unable to disappoint her and going for the Real Compliment, just v charming. rip - jake and jeremy's danceoff lol hell yes and then jake just having Misunderstood the costume plan between him and christine lol - the squip getting in on the dancing :) go you funky little ai - jeremy and brooke singing that last verse of Halloween v enthusiastically at each other, - again that jeremy is just genuinely glad to see michael.... - the inherent intimacy of singing mitb b/c your bff dumped you..... - AGTIKBI REPRISE..... ;______________________________; hhhhuouuuoh my god :'3 the lil detail that at the Height of things christine is Shy and turns away.....just. This Scene oh my god - soft in a vulnerable way like, rip to jenna where we're seeing chloe's Lack Of Enthusiasm in accepting a call from her :[ - the Shift at the start of the pants song :] - and the lil mitb reprise during said pants song lmao, also always having a great time w/this concept of "maybe this teen having a rough time needs some guidance from someone grown w/all that bonus maturity here" - i wish there was a way i could help everyone but i don't know how so i guess i'll just do theatre..... - jenna being Moved simply being asked for the first time ever How She Is u_u then her being like "....Okay!" lmfao jenna's great - just have to say in whatever context i'm v fond of pitiful children there at the end lmfao the bass kicks in like that and we're having a great time - the audience always having that response to "all the way to broadway" - jeremy going "you came to see me in the play? :)" like, that he's processing the significance of that in the middle of these Very Raised Stakes - i'm soft for will roland's vocal glitching mouth noises live every night!!! - jeremy like "ha! >:)" flipping his squip off after he's successfully Apologized lmfaoooo love him - but then having that real And I'm Stronger Than You Think I Am victory like :'| - that michael's been by like a ton btw during jeremy's probably somewhat concerning coma. also cherish the lil dance he does while they're celebrating mr. heere's bepantsedness - jake and jeremy sharing a Dab - and just the Popular Kids actively seeking him out to help re: christine b/c they just Want To Be Supportive.....very nice - this vimh interlude or whatever with christine and jeremy like jlsdfhh i think of this all the time - me and the voices in my head have made up our collective mind ;__; what do they say we should do ;______; and the Woohoo! ;_______________; - huoughh kiss and you KNOW especially the [jeremy spinning away in sheer enthusiasm] of 2.0 just KILLS THE MAN ;O; - jeremy not missing a beat despite the squip's interruption leeet's GOOOOOOOOOOOOOO - the more than survive na na na na na na na na na na na's but they're all So, and jeremy ending With everyone but also there with Himself and it's so Good and Everything Wants What Vimh Has!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! hhrough ;0; - that jason does that spin at curtain call w/his excellent squip costume... - that in virtually any given curtain call when they get into line together there's that lil ritual of george smacking will's ass lmao love languages

i mean tl;dr quite Same in that like, most likely to inspire tearing up over something or other includes agtikbi reprise and vimh which is just like, again any finale wants what it has, and the I Guess A Part Of Me bit of the non-reprise agtikbi like Oof augh this is so cute, and lgw always Gets me, and while i was rewatching speaking of being soft and move-able i was also just continually struck with delight over various moments throughout, and noticing little details for the first time thank god. just Vulnerable the whole time