#but also because they all had hysteria and were all brilliant and like if you think bsd is wild.

[kaurwreck]

I am really happy that you’ve started posting your thoughts and things online because you add a lot to how I’ve engaged with BSD as a media and also have pushed to getting more into the irl authors books since for a while I’ve been on the fence about! I hope your feeling better now and will continue to share your thoughts and ideas!

yes!!!!!!! I love this so much! Thank you for the kind words, and I'm so, so glad I could help nudge you over that fence. The irl authors have reminded me of how precious it is to be human.

(also, I'm honored I've added to how you engage with bsd!)

[gav-san]

THE QUEEN OF THE KING 11/15

Previous/Next

“Blasted old goat.”

 You mutter and are met by the whiny of a disagreeing horse. Archibaldo jumps as if he can understand, and you grip the tall old warhorse so you don’t fall off. The sound of his snickers and metal hoofs is met with curses and a very unladylike growl. 

Which are also cut off by the sounds of more hooves approaching.

It seems already you have heralded a companion, though you had barely left yours, an hour past.

It’s not hard to recognize this one will not be as benevolent as your previous captor, the Captain of the Guard. You can hear their ceaseless noise over the brush.

They have caught your trail.

Not that it was hidden. You had left the thick hunting forest, entering the high trail that would take you straight to the convent.

And unfortunately, it seems that the priesthood has discovered your destination.

You bite your teeth together, not wanting to whip poor old Archibaldo to pick up his pace but the guard captain had done you only the smallest favor letting you ‘steal’ his old stallion. And while Archibaldo had once been a brilliant fierce warhorse he was now reserved for only trodding out for little jaunts like hunts where one could switch horses with ease.

You swear again, tightening your ruined cloak around your head, wishing for some power to stave off the rain. There is little use in any more complaining than this since the task has already spiraled into a near-impossible situation but if you were no longer a princess of Hyrule then you were going to swear like a sailor of the southern sea. 

Which you found ample opportunity to do so

“Hail! The whore of Hyrule!” A man screams happily, bursting from the brush in front of you, far too close for comfort. You yank Archibaldo’s reigns sharply, and thankfully, he seems to have a few war days left in him, for he sharply goes to the side, hitting the other horse hard with his flank.

“Take that, you cur!” You say with a sneer.

But the goddesses have decided to have a good laugh at your expense because four more men burst from the side of the road. This time, they appear to be more competent- soldiers flying under the banner of the Archbishop.

They will not pity you, nor will they feel any mercy at your pleas should they catch you.

With no other option, you ride hard, straight at them. Not that you can control Archibaldo, as has decided he is now acting five years younger, still in his prime. You are merely on for a ride, and wrap your arms around his neck, plastering yourself to the saddle.

“Good boy! Lope!”

And Archibaldo doesn’t need your pitiful words, his training kicking in. And a warhorse doesn’t survive an entire career of warring without learning a thing or two. Mainly about being the biggest, most terrible creature on the field.

And Archibaldo is proving to be a demon of the highest caliber.

Through the rain he pumbles through the line that the men have formed, causing a great deal of screaming and alarm. One man actually jumps from his horse, leaving the beast to scream in terror, dashing just out of time.

You were very glad to be on the other end of those large hooves.

Your grunt of joyful hysteria overtakes your grunt of shock as he keeps up his speed. And as you race down the road, you can see the being of where the forest ends, and where the path to sanctuary begins.

If you could keep this speed, you might just make it.

You cry out in joy, rising high in your seat, feeling an intense amount of something new. Even mud-spattered and abandoned you knew its name.

Freedom.

But your laugh is cut off as you fly over the last hill. 

“Hello, wolf.”

You don’t say it as much as mouth it in a feeling now all too familiar. 

Archbishop. He had found you.

And he’s not alone. 

Over fifteen men surround him, creating lines of an impenetrable defense so there would be no feasible way Archibaldo could run them all down. Not that he’s inclined to, since a stablehand familiar with him whistles, causing him to slow. They have erected a large tent, so they are warm and dry.

Unlike you.

And you get worse as you fling yourself off the horse, cracking your elbow and earning a faceful of mud as you catch yourself on the rocks of the road. Stumbling you stand, dashing into the thick foliage of the trees, where the horses couldn’t reach you.

“C’mere boy!” Another whistle and the horse heeds its master, eager for his bag of feed and a dry rest.

You watch Archibaldo, that traitor trots back to the stablehand, who makes quick work of tying him to the tent and feeding him, the lucky bastard. Your stomach growls as you stumble to the side of the road, glaring at the men.

The archbishop gives a hefty chuckle at the way you hide.

“Come now, princess pig! Don’t make this difficult!” He says, leaning forward to mock you. “Wouldn’t you rather we caught you rather than that Gerudo? We will hogtie you like a swine!” He says and the entire company laughs. He thinks himself clever, still angry over your insults.

You don’t offer a retort, merely plunging deeper into the woods.

.

.

.

It’s almost thirty minutes before they manage to find you again. 

“Run run run little piggy princess!” They cry out, mockingly. “The beast is coming for you!”

You dash through the trees, running on the last drags of adrenaline left in you. Any real strength is long gone, mixed with hunger and despair it makes your entire body shake like a babe. 

A hand swipes at you as a man tries to catch you through the bramble. He nips your cloak, arms just long enough to grab it. You twist, struggling as he drags you down and close to the ground. With a wretch you rip free, tearing the old wool.

Bursting through a far treeline you dash, glad for the reprieve from the thick bush. If your directions are correct you are almost to the field of corn near the forest. There is a small old farmhouse there that you can pry up a board and hide in. If you're lucky there may be supplies from the old farmer there.

You unwittingly scream a few choice phrases as you dash off through the misty rain that shows no sign of letting. One benefit of all this awful rain is that it’s taking the men much longer to find you.

But another thing about the thick rain is that it makes it almost impossible to see your path.

Until you lose your footing.

You keel in terror as you cantilever over the edge of a deep precipice. Twisting you grab at the air, and it’s only thanks to the slightest weed you manage to grab that you save yourself.

As you grapple yourself back up you realize that you have almost managed to fall straight from the gorge into the deep lake there. Images and names fly through your mind but you can’t think straight as you begin to crawl back up.

Clapping meets you.

“What a good show! Less a piglet princess, more a rabbit!” The Archbishop says, mouth curling. It’s a testament to how much he dislikes you that he’s come to watch this. He stands under a finely embroidered umbrella that one of his aids is holding with visible strain as he is pelted with rain.  “Though you’ll be meeting the bottom soon enough.”

The rest of the men have also dismounted their horses, awaiting in a semicircle as the Archbishop mulls over your disgusting visage.

You hold your head high. You doubt if they had been in your position they would have ever gotten as far as you. You may be a bedraggled mess, but you have more pride and honor than them all combined. You have done good deeds all your days. If they are here to push you back off the cliff, you would not be ashamed.

Nor would you grace him with a response. And you can tell the longer you stare at the Archbishop, the more annoyed he is getting. 

“What! Do you think you are still too good for me? You think just because you had me jailed so long ago that you were right? Just us standing here is proof I’ve won! And now the cold-footed wolf of Hyrule will get what she deserved all along!”

You glance at the edge of cliffs, mere inches away. 

What would be the worst option? To willingly jump yourself, or to be forced off? You furrow your brows together as he cackles, waving a hand to step into the rain. 

“I've been waiting a long time to see the end of you, interloper.” He says, eyes bright, face red, as he moves forward. You brace yourself, knees weak but shoulders straight. Slowly, slowly, you turn on your feet. You may go off the cliff, but you didn’t have to do so alone.

He pauses, putting a hand to his chin. “ You know, first it was your father who kept ‘defending the common folk’, marrying the King’s sister who was promised to become a nun-” He wiggles his thick fingers, “So he had to disappear on what should have been a peaceful trip. Thankfully it started that nice war that gave the king plenty of opportunity to raise taxes and for me to borrow some permanently. Got my nice title thanks to that.” 

You seize up, chest filling with horror. Hatred, pure and beautiful flares through you.

“Then your beautiful mother-“ He gives a long sigh. “The fire was only supposed to make her realize that she belonged in the church, under my careful watch, to repent the loss of her family as vengeance from the goddesses.”

Your chin trembles as you hold back tears, trying to contain your anger. He snaps his gaze to you, sighing theatrically. 

You think he may continue to meander and take his time. But you must be in shock for it only takes him a moment to grab your shoulders, spin you around, dangling you off the cliff.

You cry out as he twists your hair. He spits upon you, his words exiting with uncontrolled vitriol, rain pouring down his mole-ridden jowls.

“Then the king took in you. For a while, it seemed like you’d take after your mother, and I rejoiced. Perhaps even believing I may have a second chance to turn a Hyrulian princess to the Goddess's services. But even as your visage became as pleasing as a lamb, your attitude is exactly like your father's. Both cold-footed wolves through and through.”

“Someone has to be at the top of the food chain.” You break. “Not all of us can live in the mud.”

He tugs you a little forward, and you try and reach to grab him, unable to do so. 

He puts his face next to your ear.

“You think so?”

You grunt, trying to elbow him, but his robes are too thick. He forces you to look into that great empty abyss below.

The rainy mist covers the entire bottom and your mouth trembles. 

“So now you may join him then-“ He nudges you, “-as you should have done, so long ago.”

And with a scrambling, ungraceful lop he pushes you off.

But he doesn’t pay attention to your feet, which have been inching towards him. Your foot curls around him, jerking him forward as well. 

You can hear men cry out as you tumble midair, the sharp whip of wind, but you angle yourself to kick off him, away from the razor-sharp rocks jutting like unwelcome knives from the cliff. For a moment you bask in the horrified cries of the archbishop as he is unable to catch himself, watching as he bashes against them until you hit the water, air thrust out of your lungs.

Into the darkness, you plunge, and then there’s nothing but black.

–X–

It’s not so much what you can see and know with your eyes as it is a deep knowing inside somewhere that you can’t touch, and never will. A distant life is long gone, and at rest, except for these long-lost feelings. 

A gentle female voice comes into your ear, and you can feel that her voice is like the depth of the ocean, azul in the sharpest sapphire, smooth as the sweetest embrace. Your mind bursts with thoughts of familiar things. Reading books with your father, copying maps when none are looking, planning and budgeting, and studying in endless windows, Zelda at your side. You viciously hold to the intelligence, craving her awareness and knowledge.

“A path I show you.” She mutters, so softly.

You turn, trying to catch the feelings they evoke, the intelligence they hold. But they twist away like a river, and you are turned to another voice.

“A crown I bestow you.” This voice is stronger, like the call of a tropical bird in the trees above.

She sounds lush like verdant forests, smooth like snakes and rich in opportunity for adventure. Riding horses against your mother, playing cards with the captain of the guard, sparring wits against visiting scholars, and holding a newly forged sword before Link. The will to continue floods you with strength. Once again you try and hug it to you, this sweet voice, but like a serpent, it wiggles, deep into the earth where you cannot dig.

Come back, you beg desperately. 

You are bereft, you think, horrified to be lost in such blackness of nothing, but it doesn’t take long for you to recognize there is a third voice. And she doesn’t deign to whisper or mutter. She is like a distant voice, strong like a raging bonfire, like red dye or a fresh cherry pie. She makes you think of tall mountains and an evening. You race towards her, never getting closer or further.

“This king, shall you bind yourself to.” 

You come to a full stop as you feel him. His warmth, his voice, his brightness. You catch your breath as you can feel how powerful he is. Of what he means.

And it makes you panic.

“Who are you?” You demand, unable to feel or hear your voice, but somehow able to see it shift around and fill the space like a visual symphony. 

“Here.” You blink, turning. The voice is behind you. 

Your brows raise as you see three warm lights; one red, one blue, and one green, all hovering like fairy magic, casting light. 

“Find us all.” The green orb chimes lovely.

“Find a way to balance us all.” The blue adds.

“And save us all.” The red says with the finality of the last flame flickering on a cold night. And then they are blown out, embers trailing to nothing.

–X–

There is something hot on your face, and an unbearable weight on your chest. And then you feel like you are going to throw up. 

Twisting over you do throw up, but not food and drink, but just minerally water.

Warm hands help you roll over, and not collapse into a wreck on the ground as the contents of your stomach are expelled. Only after several minutes are you allowed to straighten back up, though the hands never leave.

You blink, eyes a bit blurry and you raise a hand to wipe them. And when you do, you see the glint of gold on your wrist before you feel it, being so noodle-limbed. As you look between your wrists and ankles your mind struggles to understand.

Why?

And as you finally turn to look at your savior, you furrow your brows, jaw dropping open. 

The king of the Gerudo is a breath away, eyes sparkling bright, though his hair is a matted wet mess. 

And while you are slack-jawed, he lifts a circle and places it on your head.

“Hello, my Queen.” He says saucily, with a wink.

[daisychainsandbowties]

What are your favorite old memes?

alright then fuck me

disclaimer: i have no concept of time. also a loose grasp of what a meme is. i'll do a detailed top 5 & then some honourable mentions

charlie the unicorn. asked my mum today if she remembers me being 10 & liking that yt video and she said "shut the fuck up casper". so u get the vibe. cursed, brilliant.

2. mr happy face. also a youtube video. i won't link it because you shouldn't watch it please god. but also, there's a story behind why i like it. i joined boy scouts when i was 11 & there was a girl i had a crush on (yes girl butch babies in boy scouts)

& she LOVED knives (i have a type) but her parents wouldn't let her have a penknife so i decided i would, in true mating-ritual style, give her one of my knives. it was stainless steel and had this fat curved blade and she adored it and for one fleeting moment i had all the girl game on the planet. but she also decided to name it (as you do) & it was called Mr Happy Face.

3. any and all star wars memes tbh, but especially any involving my boy the gender euphoria himself obi-wan kenobi.

the GEnErAL KEnObi meme. this is imo the funniest version of it

also this one

4. any lord of the rings meme BUT have to genuflect to the king the one the only

it's 16 yrs old GOD i was 9. spamming the melty face emoji

my man sean bean. he can hit but like, he'd die before he got to 2nd base. sad.

5.

i still play skyrim & every time i hear this i want to eat my controller so this is clearly the beef stock cube of memes

honourable mentions

the itachi thing where it was like sasuke going 'hey, itachi' fucking 20 times and itachi going WHAT!!!!!??? & then sasuke goes '.... hi.'

the world ending in 2012 (you laugh but a boy in my class cried)

the fucking!!! millennium thing. where they were like 😱 computer code will BREAK (idk) my dad made like 300 euros just sitting in the office at midnight on NYE 1999. it was called the Y2K scare here look . to me it is a meme bc my dad breaks down laughing every time he forgets he already told me about it.

grossly misspelling benaflick cumbersome's name

centipedes in my vagina. salute queen.

none pizza with left beef

blue waffle (purely for the hysteria it caused in my friend group. can u guess i did not hang out with the most reasonable the less-prone-to-drama girlies?) DO NOT LOOK IT UP. i never have and i am so happy.

dividing by zero. my friend once fully slapped my calculator out of my hand bc she thought we would both die

gaia online is a meme to me. fuck that place fr. had my first online girlfriend on there though. and my first death threat. let's call it a historical monument then

again. not a meme. but does anyone else remember freewebs? where you could just make ur own website? & host ur own little forums. i THRIVED. made like 15 websites for my favourite video games that these days would be called wikis.

look shoot me if you want but potter puppet pals was fucking hilarious.

people's bios on ff.net. you really had to put every single quote you like from anything ever up on ur home page.? why.

the jelly donut meme from pokemon.

ask ketchum being 10 for 25 years

the math lady meme. she is so real for that.

[topaz-eyes]

Fiction ask meme:

You know I want to pester you about Deluge, but I won't. I'll ask about House Victorian Interlude. What was the inspiration behind that? Did you have to do research? Do you have a favorite line/part?

Thanks!

House Victorian Interlude! There's a blast from the past. Going back 14 years...this is a 3-part House/Wilson Victorian era AU, written in 2008-2009. The individual fics are:

Towards An Understanding of the Catabolic Nature of the Human Male (9464 words, Explicit) Even in the Victorian age, it was all about sex.

Ardor Resolutus (2700 words, Explicit) What happened after Wilson appeared on House's doorstep in "Towards an Understanding of the Catabolic Nature of the Human Male."

On the Commission of Unnatural Offenses (9351 words, Explicit) Wilson sadly came to learn, all the heated evenings, all those months sleeping in House's bed, would still leave him woefully unprepared for the most unusual, and disturbing, proposition the man had ever let loose upon him.

What was the inspiration behind that?

Crack. It was all crack. I'd known about the Victorian era diagnosis of "feminine hysteria" for awhile, and the "treatment" for it, but didn't know what to do with it. Until one day in mid-August 2008, I was in kind of a hyper mood, and I thought it'd be fun to write Victorian era House/Wilson. That's all. Oddly, no one else I knew of had done that before (which I thought strange, House MD was a loose adaptation of Sherlock Holmes, it seemed a perfect setting for an AU). I made Wilson a newly-arrived specialist in female disorders, who makes his acquaintance with House, a brilliant but misanthropic doctor and professor of medical philosophy at Princeton. I wrote it in 10 days, 2 lovely people beta'ed it, and "Towards An Understanding..." was posted to LJ end of August.

I never intended to continue the AU, but in late December 2008 I decided I wanted to break 60k words of fic posted for the year. Iirc "Ardor Resolutus" was the original ending for "Towards An Understanding..." but I cut it from the initial draft before I sent it to beta because the fic felt too long otherwise. (It's been 14 years, memory is fuzzy and I didn't take detailed notes at all.) In 2 days I fleshed out what I cut, took 2 more days for beta, and I posted it to LJ just in time to meet my 60k goal for 2008.

I started "On the Commission..." right after posting "Ardor Resolutus". Like "Ardor Resolutus" it rose from paragraphs cut from "Towards An Understanding…". I had 5000 words for it by mid-Jan 2009, but then ended up picking at it over the next 3 months. It was finished in late April, then beta'ed and posted to LJ by the end of April.

Did you have to do research?

I sure did. I had to adapt the circumstances of House and Wilson's meeting, of course, and the source of House's leg injury (falling off a horse); the entire theory of the "catabolic" male vs the "anabolic" female re sex, which House was keen on disproving; and Victorian male fashion, where men were considered immodestly undressed if they didn't wear cravats and vests/waistcoats. (Not to mention the "spermatorrhea" bit for entirely normal wet dreams. The entire Victorian attitude towards sex was seriously more an eye-opener than I expected.) I also wanted to include enough setting details that the story felt grounded in the era and believable. If I'm going to write crack, I'm going all in.

Do you have a favorite line/part?

I like the scene in "Towards An Understanding..." where House explains his theory to Wilson; and the end of "On The Commission..." where House subverts Wilson's expectation of being outed (and arrested).

Thank you for letting me take the trip down memory lane, Phoenix! And you can ask about "Deluge" if you want, I don't mind.

[mggpleasedontlookhere]

call out my name pt. 2

summary: spencer rushes off to fix things with y/n, but can they really be fixed?

word count: 2,371                                                                                     reading time aprox: 9 mins

a/n: i just wanted to say thank you for all the support and praise i received on here, especially seeing all of my favorite authors comment and reblog my work is so heartening. thank you all so much for the support, you’re the reason why i have the encouragement to continue doing what i love <3

masterlist

part 1

The rain pattered against the window panes, interlocking with the light that shone through the sheer curtains of my apartment. A cold breeze slipped through the crack of the window, letting it venture through the dim room before it graced my skin. Although the sensation hadn’t registered in my mind as the plain beige wall in front of me consumed my attention. 

The hypnotic sound of the rain provided a consistent rhythm that encouraged my introspection. In the entire duration of my break, I’ve let my thoughts filter and organize themselves. I’ve felt powerless against the accusations that my brain has thrown towards me, setting my emotions to the side in a state of suspense. 

My knees were curled up against my chest, my unwashed hair scrunched up against my cheeks, and my sweater was littered with unknown stains and dried tears. Along with the descension of my reasonability, my hygiene followed shortly after. 

I was brought out of my bubble by the buzz of my phone. I turned it off weeks ago from the constant notifications I got from the team, it was only when I received a text message from my mother that I decided to turn it back on for the day. 

I reached over to the side table where my phone laid, feeling my muscles tense up and ache from the lack of movement I’ve done these past weeks. Turning it on, the intense light blinded me, leaving me disoriented. When my eyes finally adjusted to the sudden change of light, I wished that I had been blinded a little longer than I was. 

The notification read ‘New Voicemail: JJ <3’ 

My breath got pushed back in my throat, a wave of discomfort flooding over my entire body as my thumb hesitated over the notification. My lips trembled, swallowing my saliva while a debate ensued between my impulsivity and my timidity. With a numb boost of confidence I hurriedly pressed on the notification, traveling through my phone to hear out her message. 

“Hey Y/N” The message began. “I know that you heard...about what I said to Spence-” Her voice was low and full of penance, although any remorse that I tried to comprehend washed away at her use of Spencer’s nickname. “Gosh, I don’t even - I don’t even know how to begin to apologize for what I said - I - you don’t know how much Spence loves you and how much he talks about you” She sighed, her tone picking up as she praised Spencer. “But what I said was completely inappropriate and I’m so sorry for what I said. Telling Spence that I loved him was way out of line, considering that you’re such a dear friend to me, and especially since things are so complicated with me and Will - I just - I’m so sorry that I told him that I love-” 

The rest of the message was left to the imagination as I forcefully threw my phone against the beige wall, denting it in the process. A flurry of newfound rage clouded my mind, providing a break from the contradicting thoughts that usually engulfed my head. For once, I had directed the emotion towards another individual rather than myself. 

The phone fell with a heavy thud, glass debris flying across the floor, decorating the oak floors with fragments. I could care less about the material expense that I would have to pay; my blind resentment tainting my rationality. 

My chest heaved in exasperation as a novel onslaught of tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Although the quantity of tears were sparse because they were wasted on my self reproach the previous week. I furiously wiped them away, detaching myself from the malicious feeling, a habit I came to develop. 

I adapted to the stupefaction that infiltrated my heart, at times feeling grateful for the ability. The coldness that surrounded my small living room couldn’t compare to the icy innards of my chest. 

Finally collecting my composure, I looked over to a mirror that sat between my bookshelves, taking in my disheveled and ragged appearance. 

JJ wouldn’t look like this

My face contorted into a somber expression, letting my insecurities slip through the hard persona I persisted to instill in myself. I surveyed the filthy environment that surrounded me; the floor was painted with old dirt, the furniture had accumulated colonies of dust, and the roses that sat on the kitchen counters had wilted. 

JJ would never let herself go like this

Who was I kidding? Who was I, Y/N Y/L/N, to compare to a Georgetown graduate, an astounding profiler, and an icon of beauty? 

Well the one thing I had that she didn’t was Spencer

But did I really? 

I was startled out of my grim assessment by a frantic knocking against my front door. I groaned internally, not hesitating to stay where I was situated. I couldn’t handle any human interaction at the moment, frankly I didn’t want any human interaction at all. I’ve learned to love the little cocoon I had built around me, finding serendipity in my self-isolation. 

“Go away!” I attempted to shout, but all that came out was a hoarse whimper that sent a sharp pain to my esophagus. I flinched as the knocking became more frantic, the volume elevating along with the forceful jabs against the wood. 

I felt my ears ring, using my hands to alleviate the pounding that attacked my eardrums. I was about to open my mouth to disclose another warning, but a familiar voice had interrupted me. 

“Y/N! Y/N are you in there!” Spencer yelled, slamming his fists against the door between every phrase. 

I froze in my spot, a wave of mixed emotions coming over me as my cheeks flushed at hearing his voice for the first time in a long time. The familiar sound sent shockwaves down my spine and dread silenced my tongue. It felt like I was on high alert, like an animal paranoid of its prey. 

“Y/N! Just - god please tell me you’re at least okay” He stammered in his fit of hysteria, the bangs on the door slowing in rhythm. 

Silence followed his pleas, instilling a sense of relief that I didn’t know I needed. Movement outside stilled, making me think that he had given up his relentless efforts and went elsewhere. I let out a breath that I held in, alleviating the stress that had accumulated inside of me. 

Although the moment that I began to relax into my seat, two blaring shots rattled through the apartment complex. The scent of gunpowder meshed with the dewy air as I jumped out of my seat, startled and alarmed. I closed my eyes and covered my ears with my palms, the ringing leaving me blindsided. 

“Y/N! Y/N? Are you there?” Spencer rushed in with his gun pointed, his feet clattering against the floor in a haste. 

“What the fuck Spencer” I hoarsely whispered, although the meekly volume of my voice hadn’t penetrated this ears. 

“Y/N!” He called out once again, slowing his movements as his sneakers squeaked with every step he made. 

“I’m here Spencer, I’m here” I repeated, using all my might to push the small phrase off of my tongue. My throat stung at the strain of my voice, a burning feeling eliciting from the back of my throat due to the dryness. This time I had caught his attention.

We locked eyes for a brief moment before I quickly broke our line of sight, insecure about my current appearance; even after a month I still held Spencer’s opinion to the highest magnitude. In the time that I observed him, I noticed that he was drenched in rain water, his hair tangled and strung out from his head while droplets proceeded behind him. 

“I-” He breathed, his words caught in his throat. He dropped his revolver beside him in incredulity, drinking in my battered presence. He didn’t look too well either, his stature was still the same but the bags under his eyes were prominent, his cheeks were puffed from exhaustion, and his posture resembled the hunchback of Notre Dame. 

“W- what are y- you doing here Spencer?” I croaked, rubbing my hands against my arms in an attempt for any type of coverage. 

My senses heightened as I waited for his response. He brought in such a familiar, yet unfamiliar presence with him. It felt like I was home, but so far away from it at the same time. 

Maybe it was the way that I longed for the warmth of his embrace, the calming rhythm of his heart beat while I slept on his chest, and the soothing melody of his voice while he read to me. But maybe it was also the way he hadn’t dared to speak when JJ’s voice was full of love, when he assumed that I hadn’t acknowledged the endearments he received from another woman, and when I became a distant thought in the back of his head. 

I’ve never doubted Spencer’s eidetic memory, but this time I questioned my place in that brilliant mind of his. Maybe for the first time, I was the one thought that had ceased to exist. 

“I - why didn’t you tell me?” He uttered, running his hand over his jaw in grievance. His eyes burned holes into me, the intense glare making me feel small under his scrutiny. 

I couldn’t answer

“God Y/N - I don’t even - why didn’t you even tell me?” 

“I - uh - I don’t” I stuttered, unable to muster the confidence or cognitive ability to speak; it was like my brain had turned into mush. 

“Please talk to me” He pleaded, taking a hesitant step closer to me. 

I stumbled back in a haste like he was some sort of repellent. I felt a constant push and pull in my gut, messing with my innate instincts. 

“Spencer don’t-” I warned, seeing how he had taken a few determined strides towards me. 

“Spence...please don't - p- please” I whimpered, feeling a wet substance slide down the apple of my cheeks. I tasted the crimson blood mix with the salty residue on my lips, unaware of how hard I bit down on the skin. 

Pained tears continued to fall incessantly from my eyes, matching the way the rain ran down my window panes previously. I saw Spencer’s figure slump down in defeat, the helplessness in my words permeating his eardrums. 

“Y/N just - please let me fix - Y/N just please let me fix us” He solicited, looking to me for permission to advance. 

“Spencer there’s no need for fixing anythi-” 

“Yes there is Y/N-” 

“No there isn’t Spencer!” I persisted, convincing myself that I had everything under control. I shut my eyes in frustration, shaking my head in denial while I reminded myself of all the malicious emotions I refused to feel. 

“Y/N please just list-” 

“No Spencer. I know what to do and I know how to deal with-” 

“No Y/N! No you don’t - god you’re so stubborn sometimes -” He imprudently blurted out, pinching at the bridge of his nose to collect his composure. “Y/N - please just…” He sighed, looking deep into my eyes from a distance. “Please just let me in” He begged, a few tears slipping from the corners of his somber irises. His face wore an anguished and desperate expression, an expression that had the ability to end a war. 

My cold exterior shattered instantaneously from the sight of Spencer, feeling my heart being tugged into multiple directions until all that was left was a pained human muscle. As much as I wanted to convince myself of an ardent persona, I knew that Spencer was the only person that could invoke such a visceral reaction from me. Whether I accepted the feeling or not, I knew that Spencer’s effect on me was unmatched to any delusions I made myself to believe. 

My lips trembled uncontrollably as a soft sob rolled off my tongue. I looked to Spencer for aid, feeling my entire facade crash and burn. My knees buckled and weakened from reality coming in all at once. When the first cry fell from my mouth, more followed soon after. 

I became a drenched mess that sat in the middle of the living room. I felt deceived by myself, developing a sense of self resentment as my mindset came into actualization. I grieved for the fragment of myself that I secluded and killed off because of my inability to process my agony, longing for that piece of me back. 

Spencer came to my rescue, engulfing me in his arms and encroaching me with his touch. I leaned into his chest, desperately clutching onto the dress shirt he wore. My tears stained his blazer, leaving puddles along the fabric, but I couldn’t care less. 

I breathed in the sedative scent, feeling it flush through my nostrils, reminding me of home. I held onto his arms tightly, afraid that he would disappear the moment I let go of him. 

Spencer tried to reach down to grab a hold of my cheek, but I nudged his fingers away, climbing into his lap as I buried my face into the crook of his neck. 

He cooed into my hair, stroking my back while he whispered his endearments in my ear. “You’re okay Y/N - we’re going to be okay” He breathed, letting out a staggered exhale as he enunciated his words. 

Light rushed into my chest at that moment, letting it conquer and cut through the caution tape I had wired around my feelings. Shutting my eyes, I relaxed into his love, letting it infiltrate and replace my fears. 

I didn’t doubt that it was going to take time to heal and repair, but at least it was beginning. 

“I love you so so much Y/N - more than you can ever conceive” He declared, pressing a soft kiss on my temple. “And nobody will ever tell me otherwise” 

I knew from that moment that I didn’t have to walk on a tightrope no longer because I knew it was my name that Spencer would be calling out.

-

taglist: @rexorangecouny​ @howdycharlie​ @linthebinbag​ @goldentournesol​ @andiebeaword​ @moon-light-jukebox​ @pizzarollsfordayz​ @baby-i-am-fireproof​ @cielo1984​ @spncersreid​ @101donuts​ @l0ve-0f-my-life​ @haylaansmi​ @parkeroffline​

[lubdubsworld]

Madeira.  ( Taehyung x OC) Part 1/2

Genre : Angst, Sexually Explicit Content. 

Kim Taehyung x OC 

 Cop Au! 

Married Taehyung x Oc! ( Estranged ) 

Cop Taehyung! Bartender Oc ! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N : This is my spin on the brother’s best friend trope. I wrote this for @ladyartemesia​ Who made the amazing banner for the fic..

Because of one of her posts :D :D But I hope all of you enjoy it. 

Also listen , i was supposed to write a simple brother’s best friend fic , maybe playful fluff and mild angst and some smut but  this thing snowballed into a plot monster and now here we are. 

This is part 1. 

Part 2 soon :) 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So... that husband of yours is still missing, huh?" The man leaning against the bar smelled like sewage. 

There really was no other word for it. 

He smelled like he’d been drenched in the water that usually ran down the streets, whenever the heavens opened and poured a fucking deluge on us. Like he’d taken a soak in the disgusting broth of decaying produce, discarded animal entrails and everyday garbage. You know, the kind of stuff you find in the market street of a small town.

I ignored him, exhaling sharply and dragging the rag across the counter again, this time with a little more force behind it to make up for the urge to wrap my hands around the fucker’s neck. 

Not the man leaning on the bar that is.  

The man who had abandoned me. 

Kim fucking Taehyung. 

My breath shuddered out of me ,  a headache blooming inside my skull at the very thought of him. it was kind of unwarranted, I guess because it really wasn’t perfect Kim Taehyung’s fault that his wife of five years and seven months hadn’t seen him in ...well, five years and six months. 

Fuck. 

But see he wasn’t missing from my life by design. 

He certainly hadn’t intended to leave me alone because , well for one, he loved me. and two, his best friend aka my big brother Park Jimin would skin him alive if he tried something like that. 

They were best friends, bosom buddies since kinder garten and the only time they’d ever fought was when Jimin had walked in on me choking on Kim Taehyung’s dick in our coat closet at the age of seventeen ( 19 in Taehyung’s case) . 

Taehyung had sported a black eye for two whole weeks. 

So you see, Taehyung wouldn’t just leave me without reason, not unless he wanted to be castrated by my brother. 

No. 

The reason Kim Taehyung wasn’t around was because he had taken up an assignment, an undercover assignment a month after our wedding. 

An assignment that was supposed to last two months. Except it hadn’t and now, it had been a whole five and a half years since I’d seen the man I loved. 

Kim fucking Taehyung. 

See, Taehyung was a detective. 

A brilliant, A- class detective in Seoul PD’s Narcotics Division and he had a reputation. 

 A reputation as one of the most ruthless, merciless men on the force. 

Taehyung had a mind that worked like no other, somehow able to predict exactly how drug dealers moved, how the shipments were going to be smuggled. He could tell where the deal was going to go down, what kind of security measures they would be up against and the most intriguing of all :  just what drug a person had taken, simply from staring into their damn eyes .

 It wasn’t uncommon for his cop buddies to comment how lucky the country was, that Kim Taehyung had chosen to be on this side of the law . 

So Kim Taehyung’s reputation as a brilliant detective was well earned and that was why,  when people heard his reputation and  then  met him, they were always stunned. 

Because, for someone with such a terrifying aura , Taehyung looked deceptively.....well ethereal was the word. Beautiful was another. So fucking gorgeous  he could make angels cry. 

But Taehyung didn’t just look like a fucking angel. He acted like one. He acted like he had been sent on earth, simply to fight every bad guy in the city and while I had been proud and amazed and suitably enthralled with his prowess in the beginning, the fact that he had chosen to just leave me , really fucking hurt. 

It hurt that the boy i had grown up with , the boy who had been my first everything hadn’t thought twice about leaving me behind. About leaving everything we had spent a whole decade building , behind just because he couldn’t control the urge to save the fucking world.

Every damn time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The water in my parents’ home was often murky and I had to let it run for a few minutes, before sticking the bucket underneath the tap. I watched the water turn clearer, cupping my palms underneath the flow watching it run clear. I nudged the bucket with my foot , under the tap and the sound of the water hitting the cheap plastic filled the cramped bathroom, loud and jarring. 

I leaned against the chipped blue tiles, fingers shaking as I clenched them into fists. I had moved year about nine months after Taehyung had left, when it became clear that he wasn’t going to be coming back anytime soon and it became hard, paying the rent for our modest apartment in Itaewon. 

Jimin had offered to help, offered to let me move in with him and his wife Irene,  but he had been newly married as well, with a baby on the way. And i just couldn’t do that to him. I’d called my parents, explained that Taehyung and I were taking a break and could I move in for a while?

My parents had been stunned. 

A break after ten months of marriage? what had happened? 

I’d kept my mouth shut because everything was a security risk. I couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t cry or complain or seek comfort in my mother’s gentle words. Instead i’d spent the days, locked up in my childhood bedroom, pouring over my journals, my keepsakes and photos, reliving the years I’d spent, loving and learning and cherishing Taehyung. 

First kiss in his garage at the age of fifteen  , laughing over a failed skateboard trick. How he’d grinned at me, watching me whine over the scrape on my knee, how he’d stared up at me through the sweat damp bangs on his forehead as he’d knelt on the floor, sticking a bandaid over the scrape and then instead of moving away as usual, he mad moved  in,  brushed his lips against mine, stole the breath out of my lung , the soul out of my body . 

And Those first two years of denial....when he would practically run out of the door if i so much as breathed in his direction. 

“You’re Jimin’s sister.. I can’t...” 

God often he’d said that...over and over again until the words lost all meaning for me. I had wanted him so blindly. Had fought any girl who so much as looked at him and every one of my girlfriends  knew to stay clear off Kim Taehyung. 

The whispers, anytime someone showed an interest on the most handsome boy in school. 

Yes, he is gorgeous, yes he is smart and amazing but he belongs to  her.  She’ll kill you if you come near him. 

I’d enjoyed it. I enjoyed knowing that everyone could see that he belonged with me, even if Taehyung himself didn’t . 

And me at seventeen, watching him talk about leaving .... How he was going to join the police academy and become a cop and that had been the final straw. I’d all but barrelled into his home and kissed him. 

Told him in no uncertain terms that he was not going anywhere without telling me he loved me. And if he didn’t , I wanted him to swear he would never regret it. That when , years from now, he saw me walking down the aisle with some other guy, he would stand in the wedding party, next to my actual brother and not regret that he let me go. 

Taehyung had kissed me back with fervor that still made my lips tingle. 

And that last week before he left, when we had spent all our waking hours, either having sex or thinking about having sex. How we’d christened every surface of our parents’  house , our rooms and finally the coat closet after one particularly tense game of truth and dare. 

That was a memorable one because my brother had walked in, just as Taehyung had gripped my hair hard enough to bruise and shoved his ‘ big by any standards’ dick straight down my throat. 

Talk about embarrassing. 

And it had taken a whole lot of begging and cajoling and promises to not have sex till we were married, for my brother to come around.

But he had. 

And for five glorious years, I had been Kim Taehyung’s girlfriend. Watched him climb the ranks at seoul PD with a speed that was amazing. Watching him become the youngest detective on the force... watched him carve a reputation for himself in the Narcotic department.

And one evening, having dinner in a posh restaurant with our family and friends, I had watched him get down on his knees , a small velvet box in his hand  eyes practically sparkling with love as he stared at me. 

“The only one you’re walking down the aisle with is me, sweetheart.” He had rasped, over the raucous cheering of all the most important people in our lives. 

But the joy had been short lived. 

Just a month after our wedding Taehyung had taken up the assignment. Just two months, he had promised. I’ll be back in two months baby. I love you so damn much, you know that....

I had said it was okay. it wasn’t but i had said. Had promised to wait for him. To keep myself safe. 

Two months had turned to two years. Two years had turned to three. Three to four and four to five. 

Lonely. I was so lonely. 

Even living with my parents, the solitude had been unbearable. The ache from not being touched by him . The ache from not being able to touch him. From not having that boxy smile to greet me in the morning. Not running my fingers through his hair as he left hickeys all over me. Not having him over me, staring down at me,  eyes heavy and hard as he fucked into me.

I missed him so fiercely it was a physical ache. An intense , hollow ache filled with anxiety and longing. 

And terror.

Oh god I was so terrified. 

The fear was all encompassing somedays and I had to bite down on my pillows just to stop myself from giving in to hysteria. To start sobbing, uncontrollably because the thought would come out of nowhere, bowling me over in it’s intensity. 

The burning fear that perhaps he was hurt. 

That perhaps he was no longer of this world and i would never even know. That perhaps right this moment he was lying in some abandoned warehouse, bleeding out , thinking of me, wishing he could see me and he was just going to die alone . And I would never know. 

I spoke to Jimin on the phone to Jimin every weekend. But sometimes, once every three or four weeks, Jimin called in the day. 

We would exchange small talk. 

And then he would say, 

“Had a glass of madeira last night.”  “ spoke to Taehyung’s handler last night. 

I would grip the phone hard, brace myself for the good , the bad or the ugly that was to come. 

“Tasted great. Was thinking of you.”  He’s fine. He misses you. He loves you. 

“Okay. Thank you Jimin.” 

And that was that. 

The sound of the water spilling over drew me to the present and i blinked, staring down at the water flooding the bathroom, the drainhole struggling to get rid of the excess water. 

The house was deserted. 

My parents had died a year ago. And now it was just me. 

I swallowed , shaking my head before grabbing the hem of my dress and stripping. 

Shower.

And then bed. 

Alone. 

Always so fucking alone. 

The phone rang then and i groaned. 

God, I hated having to leave the shower to attend calls but the reception here was terrible and I could only get calls if I left the phone on the small table by the bed. 

Grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my torso, I stumbled out into the dimply lit bedroom, reaching for my phone. 

I couldn’t recognize the number and I frowned, before accepting the call.

“Hello?”

“Yerin?” 

Every hair on my body stood on end and my body curned hot and then went icy cold really really fast. 

“T-T-Tae??” I whispered, gripping the phone so hard my fingers went number. 

Five years later and his voice was so different. Deep and raspy and exhausted and I couldn’t make sense of it. Was this real? Was i having a fever dream? Had i fell in the shower and hit my head? 

“Hey baby.” He chuckled. 

“Is this real? Is it you?” I whispered, confused and my head spinning and my vision fading a little. 

“Yeah. “ He coughed a bit and i panicked. “ I’m back. “

I froze. 

“Wh-What?”

“I’m back. I’m home. I’m .... I’m back.” 

I stared at the wall, too stunned to process what I was hearing. 

I could hear his voice through the phone but I couldn’t respond. 

Staring at the screen , I hung up. 

And then, I finally gave in to the hysterics. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[tenebrius-excellium]

How To Cheat A Dragon’s Curse Part 2 (because I cannot keep a consistent way to jot down my listening process at all, sorry about that. Just keep on the lookout for #reddie’s liveblog and you’ll be ok)

- UNIDENTIFIED FROZEN OBJECT (UFO)

- I love that Hiccup finally yelled at Stoick instead of submitting to what his father had said. It was the literal threat to the life of his best friend topped by the suggestion to make friends with SNOTLOUT instead that mirrored to Hiccup that he had to stand up to his father NOW or it would have dire consequences. If he didn’t put down his foot this time, someone would die. Before that, it apparently hadn’t been bad enough for him to act as himself (totally no painful personal flashback right there). Realizing just how bad things really are is so important. 

- oh my gosh yaaaaaaaaaaaaaassssss I KNEW ONE-EYE WOULD MAKE ANOTHER APPEARANCE AND HERE HE IS IN ALL HIS GLORY; STILL NEEDING TO BE BRIBED TO LIFT A PAW

- ...is it bad for me to say that I’m...kinda glad Fishlegs got left out of this adventure? Am I heartless because of it...? It’s just...my man Hiccup can finally get to some stuff. Without Fishlegs whining about every other action and having to be dragged behind every other minute, I’ve noticed that Hiccup himself is a lot less whiny. In Camicazi’s company, it seems to be easier for him to think. To act. To lead. Idk, I recognize a lot of movie!Hiccup in him now, and I love that more. Then again, movie!Hiccup was an independent loner which didn’t do him much good in the long run. Idk, Fishlegs feels sooo much like dead weight though. Without him, Hiccup’s got a free head. A much clearer, more determined and more focussed mind to come up with an action plan that will actually save the day instead of going wrong because of someone else’s mishap.

- Doomfang certainly seems like the inspiration for movie!Toothless. Except it is much larger and a water dragon O_O what a twist. I didn’t realize there were so many water dragons in the book!verse!

- okay. this book certainly feels most like the first movie - actually like a mix of the first movie and Klaus (2019). It has a very nice Christmas-y feeling due to the description of the frozen sea contrasted with the warm lights and cozy atmosphere of the Great Hall of Hysteria...well...it’s now a definite fact that Cressida’s aestheticization of the book!verse is found at night. The description of the group racing against time over the cracking ice of the Wrath of Thor in pitchblack darkness was hauntingly beautiful. 

- Like I said before, my man Hiccup can finally unpack his sass without getting interrupted by another mishap. THE SCENE WHERE HE FALLS INTO THE SOUP; IMMEDIATELY GATHERS HIS WITS AND OUTWITS NORBERT THE NUTJOB IS BRILLIANT AND PEAK ENTERTAINMENT. WHAT A LEVEL OF STORYTELLING; I AM FOREVER IN LOVE WITH THIS SCENE NOW. THANK YOU CRESSIDA. I was so surprised?????????? Hiccup is super intelligent, and Camicazi is intelligent enough to keep her mouth shut and not reveal herself. Hiccup’s such a sassy little ****, I’VE MISSED THAT SO SO MUCH ABOUT HIM YOU CAN’T EVEN COMPREHEND-

- also ohhhhhhh, so that’s the scene with the two-headed axe and the cage, I knew trivia but never knew this moment in context. Amazing. 

- also Hiccup’s idea of a potato is super well reflected, very realistic and hilarious at that

That’s about as far as I got. I stopped when they all went to sleep lol. Still over an hour of this book to go!!! And I can tell why someone said that this was their favorite book out of all 12, it feels so much like Gotnf!!!! <3 <3 <3

Comments are always welcome!!

[kingstylesdaily]

Playtime With Harry Styles

via vogue.com

THE MEN’S BATHING POND in London’s Hampstead Heath at daybreak on a gloomy September morning seemed such an unlikely locale for my first meeting with Harry Styles, music’s legendarily charm-heavy style czar, that I wondered perhaps if something had been lost in translation.

But then there is Styles, cheerily gung ho, hidden behind a festive yellow bandana mask and a sweatshirt of his own design, surprisingly printed with three portraits of his intellectual pinup, the author Alain de Botton. “I love his writing,” says Styles. “I just think he’s brilliant. I saw him give a talk about the keys to happiness, and how one of the keys is living among friends, and how real friendship stems from being vulnerable with someone.”

In turn, de Botton’s 2016 novel The Course of Love taught Styles that “when it comes to relationships, you just expect yourself to be good at it…[but] being in a real relationship with someone is a skill,” one that Styles himself has often had to hone in the unforgiving klieg light of public attention, and in the company of such high-profile paramours as Taylor Swift and—well, Styles is too much of a gentleman to name names.

That sweatshirt and the Columbia Records tracksuit bottoms are removed in the quaint wooden open-air changing room, with its Swallows and Amazons vibe. A handful of intrepid fellow patrons in various states of undress are blissfully unaware of the 26-year-old supernova in their midst, although I must admit I’m finding it rather difficult to take my eyes off him, try as I might. Styles has been on a six-day juice cleanse in readiness for Vogue’s photographer Tyler Mitchell. He practices Pilates (“I’ve got very tight hamstrings—trying to get those open”) and meditates twice a day. “It has changed my life,” he avers, “but it’s so subtle. It’s helped me just be more present. I feel like I’m able to enjoy the things that are happening right in front of me, even if it’s food or it’s coffee or it’s being with a friend—or a swim in a really cold pond!” Styles also feels that his meditation practices have helped him through the tumult of 2020: “Meditation just brings a stillness that has been really beneficial, I think, for my mental health.”

Styles has been a pescatarian for three years, inspired by the vegan food that several members of his current band prepared on tour. “My body definitely feels better for it,” he says. His shapely torso is prettily inscribed with the tattoos of a Victorian sailor—a rose, a galleon, a mermaid, an anchor, and a palm tree among them, and, straddling his clavicle, the dates 1967 and 1957 (the respective birth years of his mother and father). Frankly, I rather wish I’d packed a beach muumuu.

We take the piratical gangplank that juts into the water and dive in. Let me tell you, this is not the Aegean. The glacial water is a cloudy phlegm green beneath the surface, and clammy reeds slap one’s ankles. Styles, who admits he will try any fad, has recently had a couple of cryotherapy sessions and is evidently less susceptible to the cold. By the time we have swum a full circuit, however, body temperatures have adjusted, and the ice, you might say, has been broken. Duly invigorated, we are ready to face the day. Styles has thoughtfully brought a canister of coffee and some bottles of water in his backpack, and we sit at either end of a park bench for a socially distanced chat.

It seems that he has had a productive year. At the onset of lockdown, Styles found himself in his second home, in the canyons of Los Angeles. After a few days on his own, however, he moved in with a pod of three friends (and subsequently with two band members, Mitch Rowland and Sarah Jones). They “would put names in a hat and plan the week out,” Styles explains. “If you were Monday, you would choose the movie, dinner, and the activity for that day. I like to make soups, and there was a big array of movies; we went all over the board,” from Goodfellas to Clueless. The experience, says Styles, “has been a really good lesson in what makes me happy now. It’s such a good example of living in the moment. I honestly just like being around my friends,” he adds. “That’s been my biggest takeaway. Just being on my own the whole time, I would have been miserable.”

Styles is big on friendship groups and considers his former and legendarily hysteria-inducing boy band, One Direction, to have been one of them. “I think the typical thing is to come out of a band like that and almost feel like you have to apologize for being in it,” says Styles. “But I loved my time in it. It was all new to me, and I was trying to learn as much as I could. I wanted to soak it in…. I think that’s probably why I like traveling now—soaking stuff up.” In a post-COVID future, he is contemplating a temporary move to Tokyo, explaining that “there’s a respect and a stillness, a quietness that I really loved every time I’ve been there.”

In 1D, Styles was making music whenever he could. “After a show you’d go in a hotel room and put down some vocals,” he recalls. As a result, his first solo album, 2017’s Harry Styles, “was when I really fell in love with being in the studio,” he says. “I loved it as much as touring.” Today he favors isolating with his core group of collaborators, “our little bubble”—Rowland, Kid Harpoon (né Tom Hull), and Tyler Johnson. “A safe space,” as he describes it.

In the music he has been working on in 2020, Styles wants to capture the experimental spirit that informed his second album, last year’s Fine Line. With his debut album, “I was very much finding out what my sound was as a solo artist,” he says. “I can see all the places where it almost felt like I was bowling with the bumpers up. I think with the second album I let go of the fear of getting it wrong and…it was really joyous and really free. I think with music it’s so important to evolve—and that extends to clothes and videos and all that stuff. That’s why you look back at David Bowie with Ziggy Stardust or the Beatles and their different eras—that fearlessness is super inspiring.”

The seismic changes of 2020—including the Black Lives Matter uprising around racial justice—has also provided Styles with an opportunity for personal growth. “I think it’s a time for opening up and learning and listening,” he says. “I’ve been trying to read and educate myself so that in 20 years I’m still doing the right things and taking the right steps. I believe in karma, and I think it’s just a time right now where we could use a little more kindness and empathy and patience with people, be a little more prepared to listen and grow.”

Meanwhile, Styles’s euphoric single “Watermelon Sugar” became something of an escapist anthem for this dystopian summer of 2020. The video, featuring Styles (dressed in ’70s-­flavored Gucci and Bode) cavorting with a pack of beach-babe girls and boys, was shot in January, before lockdown rules came into play. By the time it was ready to be released in May, a poignant epigraph had been added: “This video is dedicated to touching.”

Styles is looking forward to touring again, when “it’s safe for everyone,” because, as he notes, “being up against people is part of the whole thing. You can’t really re-create it in any way.” But it hasn’t always been so. Early in his career, Styles was so stricken with stage fright that he regularly threw up preperformance. “I just always thought I was going to mess up or something,” he remembers. “But I’ve felt really lucky to have a group of incredibly generous fans. They’re generous emotionally—and when they come to the show, they give so much that it creates this atmosphere that I’ve always found so loving and accepting.”

THIS SUMMER, when it was safe enough to travel, Styles returned to his London home, which is where he suggests we head now, setting off in his modish Primrose Yellow ’73 Jaguar that smells of gasoline and leatherette. “Me and my dad have always bonded over cars,” Styles explains. “I never thought I’d be someone who just went out for a leisurely drive, purely for enjoyment.” On sleepless jet-lagged nights he’ll drive through London’s quiet streets, seeing neighborhoods in a new way. “I find it quite relaxing,” he says.

Over the summer Styles took a road trip with his artist friend Tomo Campbell through France and Italy, setting off at four in the morning and spending the night in Geneva, where they jumped in the lake “to wake ourselves up.” (I see a pattern emerging.) At the end of the trip Styles drove home alone, accompanied by an upbeat playlist that included “Aretha Franklin, Parliament, and a lot of Stevie Wonder. It was really fun for me,” he says. “I don’t travel like that a lot. I’m usually in such a rush, but there was a stillness to it. I love the feeling of nobody knowing where I am, that kind of escape...and freedom.”

GROWING UP in a village in the North of England, Styles thought of London as a world apart: “It truly felt like a different country.” At a wide-eyed 16, he came down to the teeming metropolis after his mother entered him on the U.K. talent-search show The X Factor. “I went to the audition to find out if I could sing,” Styles recalls, “or if my mum was just being nice to me.” Styles was eliminated but subsequently brought back with other contestants—Niall Horan, Liam Payne, Louis Tomlinson, and Zayn Malik—to form a boy band that was named (on Styles’s suggestion) One Direction. The wily X Factor creator and judge, Simon Cowell, soon signed them to his label Syco Records, and the rest is history: 1D’s first four albums, supported by four world tours from 2011 to 2015, debuted at number one on the U.S. Billboard charts, and the band has sold 70 million records to date. At 18, Styles bought the London house he now calls home. “I was going to do two weeks’ work to it,” he remembers, “but when I came back there was no second floor,” so he moved in with adult friends who lived nearby till the renovation was complete. “Eighteen months,” he deadpans. “I’ve always seen that period as pretty pivotal for me, as there’s that moment at the party where it’s getting late, and half of the people would go upstairs to do drugs, and the other people go home. I was like, ‘I don’t really know this friend’s wife, so I’m not going to get all messy and then go home.’ I had to behave a bit, at a time where everything else about my life felt I didn’t have to behave really. I’ve been lucky to always feel I have this family unit somewhere.”

When Styles’s London renovation was finally done, “I went in for the first time and I cried,” he recalls. “Because I just felt like I had somewhere. L.A. feels like holiday, but this feels like home.”

Behind its pink door, Styles’s house has all the trappings of rock stardom—there’s a man cave filled with guitars, a Sex Pistols Never Mind the Bollocks poster (a moving-in gift from his decorator), a Stevie Nicks album cover. Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” was one of the first songs he knew the words to—“My parents were big fans”—and he and Nicks have formed something of a mutual-admiration society. At the beginning of lockdown, Nicks tweeted to her fans that she was taking inspiration from Fine Line: “Way to go, H,” she wrote. “It is your Rumours.” “She’s always there for you,” said Styles when he inducted Nicks into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2019. “She knows what you need—advice, a little wisdom, a blouse, a shawl; she’s got you covered.”

Styles makes us some tea in the light-filled kitchen and then wanders into the convivial living room, where he strikes an insouciant pose on the chesterfield sofa, upholstered in a turquoise velvet that perhaps not entirely coincidentally sets off his eyes. Styles admits that his lockdown lewk was “sweatpants, constantly,” and he is relishing the opportunity to dress up again. He doesn’t have to wait long: The following day, under the eaves of a Victorian mansion in Notting Hill, I arrive in the middle of fittings for Vogue’s shoot and discover Styles in his Y-fronts, patiently waiting to try on looks for fashion editor Camilla Nickerson and photographer Tyler Mitchell. Styles’s personal stylist, Harry Lambert, wearing a pearl necklace and his nails colored in various shades of green varnish, à la Sally Bowles, is providing helpful backup (Britain’s Rule of Six hasn’t yet been imposed).

Styles, who has thoughtfully brought me a copy of de Botton’s 2006 book The Architecture of Happiness, is instinctively and almost quaintly polite, in an old-fashioned, holding-open-doors and not-mentioning-lovers-by-name sort of way. He is astounded to discover that the Atlanta-born Mitchell has yet to experience a traditional British Sunday roast dinner. Assuring him that “it’s basically like Thanksgiving every Sunday,” Styles gives Mitchell the details of his favorite London restaurants in which to enjoy one. “It’s a good thing to be nice,” Mitchell tells me after a morning in Styles’s company.

MITCHELL has Lionel Wendt’s languorously homoerotic 1930s portraits of young Sri Lankan men on his mood board. Nickerson is thinking of Irving Penn’s legendary fall 1950 Paris haute couture collections sitting, where he photographed midcentury supermodels, including his wife, Lisa Fonssagrives, in high-style Dior and Balenciaga creations. Styles is up for all of it, and so, it would seem, is the menswear landscape of 2020: Jonathan Anderson has produced a trapeze coat anchored with a chunky gold martingale; John Galliano at Maison Margiela has fashioned a khaki trench with a portrait neckline in layers of colored tulle; and Harris Reed—a Saint Martins fashion student sleuthed by Lambert who ended up making some looks for Styles’s last tour—has spent a week making a broad-shouldered Smoking jacket with high-waisted, wide-leg pants that have become a Styles signature since he posed for Tim Walker for the cover of Fine Line wearing a Gucci pair—a silhouette that was repeated in the tour wardrobe. (“I liked the idea of having that uniform,” says Styles.) Reed’s version is worn with a hoopskirt draped in festoons of hot-pink satin that somehow suggests Deborah Kerr asking Yul Brynner’s King of Siam, “Shall we dance?”

Styles introduces me to the writer and eyewear designer Gemma Styles, “my sister from the same womb,” he says. She is also here for the fitting: The siblings plan to surprise their mother with the double portrait on these pages.

I ask her whether her brother had always been interested in clothes.

“My mum loved to dress us up,” she remembers. “I always hated it, and Harry was always quite into it. She did some really elaborate papier-mâché outfits: She made a giant mug and then painted an atlas on it, and that was Harry being ‘The World Cup.’ Harry also had a little dalmatian-dog outfit,” she adds, “a hand-me-down from our closest family friends. He would just spend an inordinate amount of time wearing that outfit. But then Mum dressed me up as Cruella de Vil. She was always looking for any opportunity!”

“As a kid I definitely liked fancy dress,” Styles says. There were school plays, the first of which cast him as Barney, a church mouse. “I was really young, and I wore tights for that,” he recalls. “I remember it was crazy to me that I was wearing a pair of tights. And that was maybe where it all kicked off!”

Acting has also remained a fundamental form of expression for Styles. His sister recalls that even on the eve of his life-changing X Factor audition, Styles could sing in public only in an assumed voice. “He used to do quite a good sort of Elvis warble,” she remembers. During the rehearsals in the family home, “he would sing in the bathroom because if it was him singing as himself, he just couldn’t have anyone looking at him! I love his voice now,” she adds. “I’m so glad that he makes music that I actually enjoy listening to.”

Styles’s role-playing continued soon after 1D went on permanent hiatus in 2016, and he was cast in Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk, beating out dozens of professional actors for the role. “The good part was my character was a young soldier who didn’t really know what he was doing,” says Styles modestly. “The scale of the movie was so big that I was a tiny piece of the puzzle. It was definitely humbling. I just loved being outside of my comfort zone.”

His performance caught the eye of Olivia Wilde, who remembers that it “blew me away—the openness and commitment.” In turn, Styles loved Wilde’s directorial debut, Booksmart, and is “very honored” that she cast him in a leading role for her second feature, a thriller titled Don’t Worry Darling, which went into production this fall. Styles will play the husband to Florence Pugh in what Styles describes as “a 1950s utopia in the California desert.”

Wilde’s movie is costumed by Academy Award nominee Arianne Phillips. “She and I did a little victory dance when we heard that we officially had Harry in the film,” notes Wilde, “because we knew that he has a real appreciation for fashion and style. And this movie is incredibly stylistic. It’s very heightened and opulent, and I’m really grateful that he is so enthusiastic about that element of the process—some actors just don’t care.”

“I like playing dress-up in general,” Styles concurs, in a masterpiece of understatement: This is the man, after all, who cohosted the Met’s 2019 “Notes on Camp” gala attired in a nipple-freeing black organza blouse with a lace jabot, and pants so high-waisted that they cupped his pectorals. The ensemble, accessorized with the pearl-drop earring of a dandified Elizabethan courtier, was created for Styles by Gucci’s Alessandro Michele, whom he befriended in 2014. Styles, who has subsequently personified the brand as the face of the Gucci fragrance, finds Michele “fearless with his work and his imagination. It’s really inspiring to be around someone who works like that.”

The two first met in London over a cappuccino. “It was just a kind of PR appointment,” says Michele, “but something magical happened, and Harry is now a friend. He has the aura of an English rock-and-roll star—like a young Greek god with the attitude of James Dean and a little bit of Mick Jagger—but no one is sweeter. He is the image of a new era, of the way that a man can look.”

Styles credits his style trans­formation—from Jack Wills tracksuit-clad boy-band heartthrob to nonpareil fashionisto—to his meeting the droll young stylist Harry Lambert seven years ago. They hit it off at once and have conspired ever since, enjoying a playfully campy rapport and calling each other Sue and Susan as they parse the niceties of the scarlet lace Gucci man-bra that Michele has made for Vogue’s shoot, for instance, or a pair of Bode pants hand-painted with biographical images (Styles sent Emily Adams Bode images of his family, and a photograph he had found of David Hockney and Joni Mitchell. “The idea of those two being friends, to me, was really beautiful,” Styles explains).

“He just has fun with clothing, and that’s kind of where I’ve got it from,” says Styles of Lambert. “He doesn’t take it too seriously, which means I don’t take it too seriously.” The process has been evolutionary. At his first meeting with Lambert, the stylist proposed “a pair of flares, and I was like, ‘Flares? That’s fucking crazy,’  ” Styles remembers. Now he declares that “you can never be overdressed. There’s no such thing. The people that I looked up to in music—Prince and David Bowie and Elvis and Freddie Mercury and Elton John—they’re such showmen. As a kid it was completely mind-blowing. Now I’ll put on something that feels really flamboyant, and I don’t feel crazy wearing it. I think if you get something that you feel amazing in, it’s like a superhero outfit. Clothes are there to have fun with and experiment with and play with. What’s really exciting is that all of these lines are just kind of crumbling away. When you take away ‘There’s clothes for men and there’s clothes for women,’ once you remove any barriers, obviously you open up the arena in which you can play. I’ll go in shops sometimes, and I just find myself looking at the women’s clothes thinking they’re amazing. It’s like anything—anytime you’re putting barriers up in your own life, you’re just limiting yourself. There’s so much joy to be had in playing with clothes. I’ve never really thought too much about what it means—it just becomes this extended part of creating something.”

“He’s up for it,” confirms Lambert, who earlier this year, for instance, found a JW Anderson cardigan with the look of a Rubik’s Cube (“on sale at matches.com!”). Styles wore it, accessorized with his own pearl necklace, for a Today rehearsal in February and it went viral: His fans were soon knitting their own versions and posting the results on TikTok. Jonathan Anderson declared himself “so impressed and incredibly humbled by this trend” that he nimbly made the pattern available (complete with a YouTube tutorial) so that Styles’s fans could copy it for free. Meanwhile, London’s storied Victoria & Albert Museum has requested Styles’s original: an emblematic document of how people got creative during the COVID era. “It’s going to be in their permanent collection,” says Lambert exultantly. “Is that not sick? Is that not the most epic thing?”

“To me, he’s very modern,” says Wilde of Styles, “and I hope that this brand of confidence as a male that Harry has—truly devoid of any traces of toxic masculinity—is indicative of his generation and therefore the future of the world. I think he is in many ways championing that, spearheading that. It’s pretty powerful and kind of extraordinary to see someone in his position redefining what it can mean to be a man with confidence.”

“He’s really in touch with his feminine side because it’s something natural,” notes Michele. “And he’s a big inspiration to a younger generation—about how you can be in a totally free playground when you feel comfortable. I think that he’s a revolutionary.”

STYLES’S confidence is on full display the day after the fitting, which finds us all on the beautiful Sussex dales. Over the summit of the hill, with its trees blown horizontal by the fierce winds, lies the English Channel. Even though it’s a two-hour drive from London, the fresh-faced Styles, who went to bed at 9 p.m., has arrived on set early: He is famously early for everything. The team is installed in a traditional flint-stone barn. The giant doors have been replaced by glass and frame a bucolic view of distant grazing sheep. “Look at that field!” says Styles. “How lucky are we? This is our office! Smell the roses!” Lambert starts to sing “Kumbaya, my Lord.”

Hairdresser Malcolm Edwards is setting Styles’s hair in a Victory roll with silver clips, and until it is combed out he resembles Kathryn Grayson with stubble. His fingers are freighted with rings, and “he has a new army of mini purses,” says Lambert, gesturing to an accessory table heaving with examples including a mini sky-blue Gucci Diana bag discreetly monogrammed HS. Michele has also made Styles a dress for the shoot that Tissot might have liked to paint—acres of ice-blue ruffles, black Valenciennes lace, and suivez-moi, jeune homme ribbons. Erelong, Styles is gamely racing up a hill in it, dodging sheep scat, thistles, and shards of chalk, and striking a pose for Mitchell that manages to make ruffles a compelling new masculine proposition, just as Mr. Fish’s frothy white cotton dress—equal parts Romantic poet and Greek presidential guard—did for Mick Jagger when he wore it for The Rolling Stones’ free performance in Hyde Park in 1969, or as the suburban-mom floral housedress did for Kurt Cobain as he defined the iconoclastic grunge aesthetic. Styles is mischievously singing ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)” to himself when Mitchell calls him outside to jump up and down on a trampoline in a Comme des Garçons buttoned wool kilt. “How did it look?” asks his sister when he comes in from the cold. “Divine,” says her brother in playful Lambert-speak.

As the wide sky is washed in pink, orange, and gray, like a Turner sunset, and Mitchell calls it a successful day, Styles is playing “Cherry” from Fine Line on his Fender acoustic on the hilltop. “He does his own stunts,” says his sister, laughing. The impromptu set is greeted with applause. “Thank you, Antwerp!” says Styles playfully, bowing to the crowd. “Thank you, fashion!”

[freddiekluger]

please drop the essay length analysis Judas and Jesus (extra gay Swedish edition), O great and knowledgeable monarch of our times

alright, you ask i deliver! please excuse any typos, my eyes aren't exactly working rn

welcome to my probably super subjective but correct analysis, aka

Judas Was Right and Jesus Was A Victim (At Least, In Swedish)

Before we get started, a couple points: i’ll try to avoid comparisons to other specific productions, i’ve only seen the other recorded 2012 british version which i didn’t like for reasons including but not limited to the amount of white people with dreadlocks. Also, my understanding of swedish is limited to a couple words and phrases, so most of the lyrics i reference will be english subtitles from Ola Salo’s swedish translation and therefore might not be the most accurate !

There’s so much i could cover in this, but for now i’m going to focus on how jesus and judas are portrayed in the 2014 swedish arena tour of Jesus Christ Superstar (JCS) starring Ola Salo as Jesus and Peter Johansson as Judas, along with how this production more implicitly views god. 

From the opening number, translated into swedish as En Dimmig Himmelsdröm (A Foggy Heaven’s Dream), Peter Johansson’s acting and semantic differences in the lyrics present us with a deeply sympathetic portrayal of Judas. Looking purely at language, the english equivalent Heaven On Their Minds instantly paints Judas as much more of a faithless doubter- lyrics exclusive to the english version like “all your followers have gone blind / too much heaven on their minds” and “they think you’re the new messiah / and they’ll hurt you when they find they’re wrong” strongly enforce Judas’ main motivation for his actions being that he has less belief in Jesus and God’s plan than any of the other disciples with strong statements judging the other disciples for following him and claiming that Jesus ISN’T the messiah. The swedish translation doesn’t paint exactly the same picture- the focus of Judas’ number becomes his fear for Jesus’ wellbeing, not because he isn’t the messiah (the production remains fairly ambiguous on this point), but because Jesus can’t cope. The root of Judas’ concern comes from fear for Jesus’ wellbeing, and the disciples are referenced as regularly misunderstanding and wilfully twisting Jesus’ words. The swedish equivalent lyrics for the above examples are “they say, “jesus is god’s son” / but you know how people can change” (judas isn’t concerned with truth, just the danger that jesus will be in if the tide turns), and “the kingdom of heaven is within us, that’s what you said / bu they sew it, stitch by stich into some kind of foggy heaven’s dream”. Judas is showing that he HAS been listening and cares for Jesus’ teachings, but ‘they’ [his disciples] are turning them into something else entirely, and Judas’ worries that the support of the masses is fragile at best- the lines “and everything you say gets twisted by your lackeys / it will be anything but what you’ve said”  and “you are being used by people who want you in their battle” reinforces this again. When combined with Peter Johansson’s tough but tender performance, in which he dances between disdain for Jesus, the institution, and affection for Jesus, the man (an important distinction), Judas is the harsh realist doing his best to look out for the man he loves. The way he takes Jesus hands and looks at him with love and urgency straight away establishes that his motivations are pure- Judas is doing what he thinks is best, even though it feels like no one will listen to him. 

That was long, but En Dimmig Himmelsdröm is the perfect character introduction for Judas. He’s not totally unrecognisable, still delivering digs about ‘Jesus, the little carpenter’s son’, his manner is still rough and at this point we’re not sure whether or not the claims he makes about the disciples have any truth to them, BUT we can also see how much Jesus means to him, an important point that give context to the intensity of their future arguments and really makes the whole story much more heartbreaking.

This brings me to Ola Salo’s Jesus. Delightfully camp and queercoded, Judas describes him as being caught up in his own magic and mystery and buckling under the pressure, and he’s not entirely wrong. Throughout the first act, Jesus basks in the luxuries that being messiah can give him (the oils Mary paid for using disciple funds that were supposed to go towards helping the poor, him absolutely thriving in the shopping cart in What’s the Buzz?), and is shown actively avoiding any reminders of the seriousness of his position. He’s sick of the disciples asking him for a plan, he chooses the comforting Mary, who’s theme consists of telling Jesus everything is okay and he doesn’t need to think about anything, over Judas, who is less perhaps ‘cosy’ but is actively trying to warn and protect Jesus from an awful fate. During The Temple, he starts to crack as he’s overcome by the followers begging him to make him well, fear in his eyes as he raises his arms while frozen on the spot trying to avoid being devoured by the frenzy in desperate need of a messiah. Judas’ point about Jesus buckling under the pressure is starting to look more and more reasonable, and the dashes of showbiz campness add to the sense that much of Jesus is a persona constructed for the masses to give himself enough distance to prevent him from being crushed by the weight of God entirely. Jesus, the institution, prances around, lays his hands on his followers, and projects an air of easygoing calm. Jesus, the man, is scared and alone, and Jesus, the man, really comes out in Last Supper, but before we get there, I want to circle back to the Jesus/Mary/Judas thing.

Jesus, Mary, and Judas are presented as a love triangle: so much so, that Judas seeing Mary sing of her love for Jesus (I Don’t Know How To Love Him) is actually played as the inciting incident that sends him to the pharisees. Judas, the picture of the jealous lover, storms onto the scene, breaking them up and attempting to kiss Jesus, who instead shoves him to the ground in disdain. Judas, who is perhaps a little controlling, realises that any influence he had over Jesus has gone, and it’s likely a combination of jealousy and the knowledge that Jesus won’t stop that prompts him to head to the pharisees. In his meeting with the pharisees (known in english as Damned For All Time, although that phrase doesn’t appear once in the swedish), Judas’ expresses outright that “I’m the one who sees / Jesus, he can’t handle it anymore” “the truth is that this hysteria is making him lose control”, once he can get past explaining how much this plan of action feels like a last resort. He never even verbally or physically accept the pharisees’ offer of money, he denies it twice before it is eventually thrown over him after he reluctantly gives them the date and time to find Jesus- we never even see him pick it up, unlike other productions which show Judas grabbing for the cash and place a higher emphasis on Judas making sure he ‘won’t be damned for all time’, painting Judas as far more self serving. When it comes to Jesus, Judas is active- he’s running around trying to help, caressing him, embracing him, grabbing his hand, kissing him. They share countless moment of intimacy, especially at the start, establishing the fondness between them instead of instantly jumping to their conflict. When it comes to Mary (and admittedly, this is partially because she’s a secondary character- don’t get me wrong I still love her and Gunilla Backman does a brilliant job), she’s much more passive. Other than the much more gentle kisses in I Don’t Know How To Love Him and her penchant for dabbing Jesus’ forehead, she’s mostly just ‘there’. She cares for Jesus after the fact, and even when performing acts of intimacy like the oil and the kiss, she maintains a lot of physical distance- her songs touch on this as, much like Jesus (admittedly for different reasons), she actively distances herself from feelings to protect herself, so naturally she literally places distance between herself and the object of her love.

This brings me back to Last Supper, Gethsemane ( I Only Want to Say), and the kiss of death that broke all of our hearts. Throughout this segment, this is when Jesus, the man, really comes through, and it’s devastating. In Last Supper, he properly expresses the sheer amount of loneliness he feels, reiterating how he feels everyone will forget about him once he’s gone, and doesn’t really care about him as a man (”for you, my blood is not worth more than wine / for you, my body is not worth more than bread” “you will have forgotten me as soon as i give up my life”). This devolves into the disciples fighting each other and, you guessed it, ignoring him. For the first time, Jesus meaningfully lets out his anger, and as it turns to Judas, Judas does the same. Because of the set up of their complicated romantic relationship and the stakes involved, the amount of personal attacks and anger that comes out of Jesus and Judas’ repeated fights (which get physical) make complete sense- Jesus’ frustrations come from the fact that his entire fate has been predetermined and to him, Judas is just another instrument in the ways he’s been controlled (both with Judas being his betrayer, but also the way that Judas’ constant advice and interference with Jesus’ life (most obviously, the mary thing) are acted by Ola Salo as becoming increasingly frustrating to Jesus)- these frustrations are directed at their real cause, God, in Gethsemane. Judas’ frustrations come from the fact that no matter how hard he tries to help Jesus and keep him safe, Jesus keeps rejecting his efforts resulting in “all that we’ve built up [being] destroyed”- Judas’ heart hasn’t just been broken by Jesus rejecting him romantically, but on every level. Here, he’s actually shown to be the disciple most passionate about helping people practically and long term, being the only one concerned about Mary taking money which was supposed to help people, manipulated by the pharisees with the promise of doing good for the masses, and criticising Jesus for how they could be doing so much for people, ending his part of Last Supper with “every time i look at you i ask myself why you let all your things go so wrong? / all i ever wanted was to help you”. 

This is also the point where Judas’ claims about the disciples are essentially confirmed, and this productions intent to portray Judas as more of a tragic hero become absolutely clear. In the english version, the disciples chorus remains virtually the same each time it appears, generally being far too calm considering their leader is about to die, revealing their aspirations to be apostles, and their intent to write the gospels to be remembered. the swedish translation still achieve this, but with variations from chorus to chorus it becomes much more poignant. i’m just going to stick to ttwo, which are choruses 1 and 3. In chorus 1, lines roughly translate to “i’ve always wanted to be an apostle / life is so nice when you’re saved/ then when we’ve got time we’ll write the gospels / then everything will be the way we want”-  the apostles declaring that life is so good when you’re saved supports Judas’ opening statement that they care more about some idea of heaven than anything else, not to mention ignoring the absolute horrors that Jesus will have to go through to be saved, while the final line about the gospels introduces their intent to change whichever details they need to make ‘everything the way we want’: once again, exactly what Judas warned us of in En Dimmig Himmelsdröm. In chorus 3, taking place after Judas storms out for the last time, these lines change to “never really liked that judas / never saw what jesus saw in him / then, when we’ve got time we’ll write the gospels / and we’ll angle it so he gets all the blame”. Judas as a sympathetic character is confirmed here, as the disciples straight up admit how they don’t like Judas anyways and intend to write him as a villain (also inadvertently admitting that, since they have to write the gospels to make it look like only Judas’ fault, Judas isn’t really the sole one responsible for everything that is to come). It’s deeply unsettling, and for me was the point where I really began to question how good any of these disciples were, and by extension, how good is this production’s God if his truly sanctified followers are acting like this?

Jesus vents out all of his anger and desperation in Gethsemane. He acknowledges his own powerlessness and begs him to change the plan, but with the dark stage and no response (along with Ola Salo’s spectacular acting) it becomes clear that if anyone is there, they’re certainly not listening (”you, who have all the power / can you please change the plan / for i can already feel the pain burning in me”). It’s worth mentioning that a lot of the imagery in this swedish version is much more intense than the english, both in this song and the production as a whole. Jesus plainly calls god “thoughtless”, begging to understand, and it’s that this point we realise that he agrees with much more of what Judas has been saying than he’s been letting on- Jesus’ faith appears to be the only thing keeping him from listening to Judas and running away. Judas’ messages about people misunderstanding Jesus’ words also come out (”you care that everyone sees / but not that anyone understands”), and his eventual agreeing to die is played less as an inspiring act of faith, and more an act of desperation as he realises, he realise has no other choice. In this song, we see just how much of Judas Jesus has valued and taken on board, and that his air of carefree aloofness which frustrated Judas was, as we’ve already touched on, a complete act. The line “might as well finish what i’ve... what YOU’VE started” is absolutely miserable, reinforcing one of the major themes of this production: the idea that Jesus and Judas were both just ordinary men tormented by futures defined by forces out of their control. Just as Jesus has absorbed Judas’ logic, as an audience so we have, and it’s difficult to view the rest of the play’s events as anything other than an immense and unnecessary act of cruelty.

we’re almost done i promise!

Even knowing what Judas has/will do, Jesus still greets him with love. Judas, still under the impression that Jesus will be okay and that he’s doing what’s best, approaches him with the utmost tenderness, and the kiss is a beautiful signifier of two things. For Jesus, the return of his love for Judas shows his realisation in Gethsemane that Judas isn’t the one who’s sealed his fate and has only being trying to help, it’s god himself who has decided Jesus’ future. For Judas, the kiss shows that despite all of the anger and frustration that has been pouring out of him, he truly does love Jesus, and the way he cradles the scared and alone Jesus to his chest afterwards shows just how much he wishes he could be the one to help him and keep him close. Even with all their arguments and dysfunction, here Jesus and Judas find comfort in each other, and it almost seems like everything will end up alright. It’s in this moment that Judas and Jesus are most identifiable not as enemies, or as villain and hero, but as archetypal lovers from a Shakespearean tragedy. Neither of them set out to hurt each other, but through miscommunications, their own flaws, and external forces (both natural and supernatural), their love is simply never to be. Furthermore, in the following torture and spectacle, everything that Judas predicted for Jesus is about to come true. Another detail I find interesting is the way that Jesus and Judas both sport black nail polish, leather pants, and similar length hair: along with just looking cool as hell, the similarities really reinforce how close they are and how much they influence each other- it feels like a contemporary version of carrying a cameo or a lock of your lover's hair with you, a way for 'star crossed lovers' to keep a piece of their beloved no matter what.

The disaffected persona of Jesus, the institution, comes back as he’s taken by the authorities and subsequently insulted, degraded, and whipped. Also the swedish version of The Arrest, when the chorus starts singing questions, contains this dick joke and I think we all deserve it: “why were you dating a whore? / talk about a huge magic wand!”

Skipping forward to Judas’ Death, this is where both his character and the production’s conception of god beautifully (and miserably) align. When Judas runs to the pharisees, minor semantic changes (along with the genuine concern and great acting from Peter Johansson) reinforce that this Judas genuinely didn’t know that Jesus would be beaten and sentenced to death the way he has been, and Judas’ concern regarding how things look is played less as ‘oh no people will hate ME!’, but how having sentenced the man you love to death is one nightmarish thing, but for everyone to think you did it knowingly and willingly and then congratulate you for it is unthinkable. Where the english shows Judas’ attempting to evade responsibility for Jesus death, the swedish is more focused on Judas’ guilt, horror, and regret. The english “I’d save him all the suffering if I could / don’t believe our good / save him if I could” is swapped in swedish for “If anyone should die here I should / don’t say I’m good / better if I died”. While the english statements are somewhat empty (sure, Judas says he’d save Jesus’ suffering if he could, but he can’t so we’ll never truly know) and are still focused on Judas’ attempt to construct himself as a good guy, the swedish translation has Judas admit his guilt (even if it’s not really his fault), and make the promise of “better if i died” which, given the name of this sequence, he later delivers on. When english Judas sings “Christ, I’d sell out the nation / For I have been saddled with the murder of you”, swedish Judas sings “Jesus, I’ve been deceived / because of my act your blood’s now being spilt”, and instead of ending this first section with “I should be dragged through the slime and the mud”, swedish jesus returns to the theme of character assasination with “i will be cursed as the one behind your murder”. 

The swedish translation of the next rework of I Don’t Know How to Love Him also places much more emphasis on Judas’ genuine romantic love for Jesus- we’d be here for hours if i listed everything but here are a few key contrasts. The english has Judas sing “I don’t know how to love him /  I don’t know why he moves me”, whereas the swedish has Judas crying while singing “how do I show my love / all I want is to be close to you”. Along with acknowledging Judas already loves Jesus, the entirety of this segment is shifted from Judas singing about Jesus in the third person ‘he’, to a direct address. Judas isn’t performing his sadness, or venting his emotions, he’s emitting one last desperate cry to the man he loves as he sobs on a stage completely shrouded in darkness, and it’s devastating. Peter Johansson lets his voice run raw as he’s belting, and interrupts lines with sobs, and this Judas answers the question of “do you love me too? do you care for me?” with a quiet “no”- Judas is about to go to his death convinced Jesus must hate him, just as Jesus will face his knowing his love inadvertently put him there.

We finally reach Judas’ actual death, and the production’s far more ambiguous (if not negatively geared) depiction of god comes to a head. Judas’ screaming at god the moment he realises that his god essentially forced Judas to be the one to kill Jesus (an act of ultimate cruelty given their love) comes across as horrifying in it’s validity, unlike in other english language productions where it follows the more common characterisation of Judas being an unbeliever who can’t take responsibility for his own actions. When he spits on the ground, screaming “you have murdered me!”, we can’t help but agree- Judas was trying everything he could to stop Jesus from dying, and yet here he is. Most notably, Judas doesn’t set up his own suicide- a noose literally descends from the heavens, already tied, and Judas is literally trapped between the edge of the stage, and the symbol of death behind him. Much like he didn’t choose to kill Jesus, Judas has no choice in his own suicide- it’s suggested to merely be another part of the plan god has for him, and Judas raising his arms to form a crucifixion pose before he finally turns and jumps, disappearing into the depths of the theatre as the rope trails down (somewhat evocative of a leap to hell), highlight the sick joke. Much like Jesus begging in Gethsemane, a plea with god that in anyway implies fault or cruelty is met with silence followed by a death sentence. 

When Judas reappears to the broken and bloodied Jesus in Superstar, he appears as more of a twisted hallucination than the literal spirit of Judas. He’s the opposite of everything he was in life, draped in colour, surrounded by red lighting instead of the signature blue, his hair quite literally let down, joking and dancing. Despite singing about him, Judas virtually ignores Jesus for the whole song except when he’s taunting him, snatching his hand away after a broken and desperate Jesus reaches out for the image of his beloved (refuting Judas’ belief that Jesus would die hating him), along with the swedish additions of Judas repeatedly addressing him as “little Jesus”. Where the living Judas was serious, sometimes harsh but always well intention, often paying more attention to Jesus than he received, this Judas is the opposite: light hearted but cruel, not caring about Jesus one bit. It’s somewhat an inversion of the beginning of JCS, where the tormented Judas was constantly reaching out to Jesus, and often met with scorn and insult (see: most of their arguments, this line from Everything’s Alright: “the thought is beautiful but quite unrealistic / yes, even quite stupid”). As the song goes on, and even as Jesus is crucified, the victorious scoring of the Superstar theme ends up reinforcing the cruelty and questioning of god distinctive of this production: Ola Salo’s Jesus is one of the bloodiest Jesus’s (Jesii?) I’ve been able to find, with blood covering his torso, his arms, and all over his face, not in passive dribbles, but violent ‘swooshes’ spreading out from his eyes, emphasising the fear and pain contained within them. As the music suggests how great and wonderful Jesus’ death is, the images straight out of a horror movie before us don’t seem to match up: as both Judas and Jesus question, if no one is understanding what Jesus is saying, why kill him? instead of making a point, you’re ensuring that the falsehoods continue to circulate, unless spreading the true message isn’t really the intent at all. or, simply that Jesus was wrong: his interpretation and teachings of god were far too kind and practical, and the true god really is the one that he briefly saw in the garden of Gethsemane, and that Judas saw before his death- a cruel and vindictive god using them for his own sick purposes. If you're a strong Christian, I'm sure you could watch this production and still believe that God was right (although I think Jesus and Judas being in love counts as blasphemy), but I think in doing so you'd lose part of what makes this production so hard hitting and, as i keep saying, devastating.

that’s pretty much it for this one! i feel like jesus and judas as a queer couple is less significant to this production than the fact that it’s specifically jesus and judas that are in love - they don’t face explicit homophobia as such, although i do think the paratextual and historical associations of queerness (both with them each looking visibly queer, and them as a couple) adds a beautiful dimension by subverting the standard christian teaching of Jesus’ sacrifice as “a love that changed the world” and making the love that truly could have been transformative (and was, to a degree) the love between Jesus and another man, not to mention the way in which queerness is often viewed as radical perfectly upholding the ‘radical’ views of god and the story of Jesus shown in the production. Why wouldn’t the love between two men be the love which has us questioning god, faith, and that which many of us have been taught since birth? Ola Salo has talked about how he’s able to be positive and negative towards christianity, along with how he wanted Jesus and Judas to really represent two sides of the same coin (’faith and intelligence’), and being bisexual along with having alluded to being raised christian (not to mention Breaking Up With God, a song by his band The Ark), it’s not surprising he’s managed to present such a nuanced and layered interpretation of Jesus Christ Superstar that even me, a trans exvangelical, can fall in love with.

UPDATE: @bands-and-hobbits has just let me know that Ola's dad was a priest! Apparently he's said that he liked the organs and the music, but that was all when it comes to christianity, which (when combined with Ola stating in interviews that the JCS soundtrack has been one of his favourite albums since he was 14) makes a lot of sense about the level of familiarity he had with the text giving him confidence to go in and make changes to really capitalised off of some of the themes that are hinted at in the english version- you have enough information to understand how everything works together, but aren't so dedicated to preserving belief that you feel you can't improve/change things (and my god are we glad he did)

[antoine-roquentin]

Curtis: I am nervous about saying this to you, but I do think computer games have played a very powerful role over the past 20 years in reinforcing that managerial way of seeing the world. I’m nervous because you know much more about the games than I do. But it has always seemed to me that, at some point, as well as running around and shooting and solving puzzles, games introduced this other thing. Which was that you spend a lot of time choosing and managing things – not just how you looked, but what weapons and what powers you had, and how you could balance one against the other to produce the most effective online-being for the system of the game. That computer games were one of the pillars of the modern ideology which says that the most important thing is to keep the system stable

Booker: I’m sure you’re right about the influence of games, but I think you’re describing the front-of-house user experience, which is probably the part that’s influenced the wider world the least. Games where players are juggling equipment and abilities tend to be combat-heavy exercises in perpetual instability, and any kind of management game I’ve ever turned my hand to, where the aim is basically to build and maintain a stable system – whether it’s The Sims or Tropico, or whatever – usually ends in stressful chaos. Although maybe that just underlines why I shouldn’t be running the country.

But I agree that the principles of game design, the background structure, are popping up everywhere. A few years ago I fronted a Channel 4 list show about influential video games. They were listed chronologically, so we started with things like Pong, and the final entry on our list was Twitter, which I described as a “multiplayer online game in which you choose an avatar and role-play a persona loosely based on your own, attempting to accrue followers by pressing lettered buttons to form interesting sentences”.

At the time people sort of scoffed at that, and I was slightly taking the piss, but I do think we were right to classify it as a game, because it’s designed like one. Not just in terms of the “score” feedback, the retweets and likes and so on, but the rhythm of it, the flow of little moments of delight or disappointment, just like a Mario game. There’s a clear gameplay loop where, the more you engage, the less you want to put it down. If Twitter didn’t already exist, you could launch it today on the Steam game store as an RPG.

I don’t want to just dunk on social media, because it gives voice to people in a way that wasn’t really possible before, but its inbuilt tendency to encourage escalating, heightened speech seems guaranteed to ultimately turn a lot of users into performers, a bit disconnected from the complexity of what they feel. Sort of like the way people talk after a couple of drinks. Actually, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, because you touch on it in the series.

I’m not sure if you’ve heard the gaming term “grinding” – it’s sort of half-pejorative; it basically describes a player happily and voluntarily performing a series of repetitive tasks over and over, for hours or sometimes weeks on end, in the hope of some eventual reward. It requires some quite sinisterly well-calibrated game design to work properly. It has to feel like popping blisters on an endless sheet of bubble wrap – monotonous and fulfilling at the same time. If I had to invent a word to describe it, I’d say “emptifying”. I don’t know if it’s as evil as some people think – playing a game like that can be really soothing and oddly meditative. Like knitting. But I remember reading that these grind-y gamification principles are creeping into lots of real-life situations, like Amazon warehouse jobs, to make them feel less tedious.

Anyway, I’ll shut up about games now. I’d love to see you explore game design though.

Curtis: I think that’s a brilliant observation about Twitter. That makes a lot of sense. And I really like the idea of the gamification of everything. It’s also true in politics. Do you remember that man who Tony Blair brought into be his press person – Alastair Campbell? He immediately set up a thing in Number 10 called The Rapid Response Unit. Its job whenever Blair or the government was attacked was to immediately attack back, and monster them before they had time almost to breathe. It was very Twitter before Twitter – but it also had all the attributes of a video game. Number 10 became a place under constant attack from zombies, or whatever, from outside, and you had to spend your time stopping them coming through the windows or up from the cellar. And there was never a time to relax because there would always be another wave.

It was something that Armando Iannucci captured very well in the Thick of It – that constant attack sensibility. But that mood of constant crisis that Campbell created also had another function. It was a brilliant way of hiding the fact that you as politicians didn’t have any real ideas any longer. Gamification as a way of creating a world of constant hysteria that never allows you to stop and ask, “What is this all for?”

And I think that idea of “grinding” touches on something that I know in myself. That sometimes having to do an extraordinary set of repetitive tasks is really calming. I find it when I am editing – when at points I have to do some logging or checking, which is very time consuming. It does allow you to drift into a dream state, which liberates you from all the inner voices. You lose yourself, which, in our very self-conscious age, is something quite unusual. I read a piece a while ago that argued that people’s relationship to factory work in the age of mass-production was much more complicated than we think. That of course it was depressing and exhausting, but many people also liked the repetition in a strange way precisely because it allowed them to move into another state, into a form of calming and liberation.

[xhanisai]

Oooh I'd love to give you a mariblanc prompt but I'm afraid I can only come up with this and I'm not sure it doesn't count more as marichat:

Chat learns about the events of Chat Blanc (more importantly—him killing ladybug/Marinette) by maybe looking into a portal from a new villain and the terror he feels leads to him getting acumatized again, turning into chat blanc once more but in the current present and Marinette has to go against him all over again?

Basically chat transforms back into chat blanc and Mari is having a bad day...again

A/N: I'm gonna tweak this prompt ju-uuuust a bit cos I've written something similar already last year :) Regardless, I hope you enjoy this~

AO3 / FFN

~(x)~ . . . "Why...why aren't you running away from me!?" . Though he snapped out of Le Papillon's control earlier on, he still gravely struggled with the ferocious power of destruction that threatened to ooze out of his fingertips and cause more calamity in their city and continue to make the death toll rise. The only emotions that ransacked throughout his body and mind were immense fear, raging anger and continuous self-loathing after the things he's seen... ...and the things he's repeated. All while trying his everything to battle his internal war where the rampaging rogue akuma within ordered him to "destroy", like sharp nails scratching on a blackboard and building up his foreign craving for bloodlust and decay. What little sanity he had left was merely a sluggish dam against the waterfall of hysteria that was ready to devour him in the worst way possible. It was ironic honestly; towards the end, he became what he strived not to be. And now he was going to end up killing the love of his life all over again. "...R-Run...please..." Chat Blanc begged, claws digging into the crumbled, concrete floor where he was kneeling with an agonising grimace. The pulse of eradication clenched his entire being like a chain, demanding to be let out and wreak even more havoc, unsatisfied with only pummelling half of the city into nothing. "More! Destroy more!" It demanded like a viral entity, coursing more anguish through the poor boy's veins and forcing him to collapse on the floor and scream in even more pain. Quite similar to an absolutely, frightened creature being brutally tased to death. "DESTROY THE CITY! DESTROY THE WORLD!" The poor hero was now clutching his head, sinking his lethal claws through his scalp and then blood started to pool from the wounds, staining his pure white locks in a horrific crimson tinge. . "If you think I'm going to run away, you have another thing coming!" The sound of Marinette's determined voice broke him out of his violent stupor, the scarily resilient girl marching towards him and gracefully avoiding all the obstacles in her way, ranging from dangerous building residues to razer sharp debris. The corrupted hero gaped at her momentarily, his ice-blue eyes constricted and his muscles tensed whilst her sky blues shone with conviction, her deep black hair flying around behind her, courtesy on the wild wind that shot through her direction. Her hair was down just like...that timeline. Except, everything was also so very different.

And suddenly, he felt a small ray of hope bloom in his chest. "No matter what happens, no matter how many times that despicable, cowardly man forces you to do his bidding, I'll always be here to save you, Chat Noir!" She vowed without any hesitance, boldly getting down to his level and heaving him up to his knees by the arms with a strength that could rival her masked alter-ego. Despite her torn, tattered clothes that hung limply off her frame, despite the numerous lacerations and cuts and bruises she received prior whilst trying to help him as Ladybug, despite the fact that she's ended up facing him as an akuma twice, Never has she looked stronger than she did now. "So please, come back to me, mon Chaton," Her beautiful smile was like the cure to his disease, her presence was like innocence in the blighted city and her touch, oh, when she cradled his hands so wonderfully and brought them against her chest, he felt purified. "I...I...I don't want to hurt you...not again..." "You won't," "Marinette..." "Adrien," Before he could even blink... ...She kissed him. And everything went black. . The sound of Parisians celebrating and crying with joy and the warmth of another body holding him against them was what roused Chat Noir awake. His eyes flickered open, revealing soft, emerald greens that reflected the face of the person he loves more than life itself. His lips parted, as if he couldn't tell whether he was dreaming or not, a timid, clawed hand coated in black, reached for her face, grazing his fingers against her jaw with awe. The awe then turned into a brilliant smile, tears of joy pooling in his eyes and a quiet laugh breaking out of his lips, "Marinette...you did it...you saved us...you saved us all..." "Only because you came back to me," . . . ~(x)~

[mandoalorian]

Hello I really love that one about Javi being scared about something happening to reader, it's so soft. What do you think about reader being kidnapped by the capo and Javier and the whole DEA trying to rescue her. THANK YOU 🥰

Birthday Bloodbath [Javier Pena x Reader]

Read part one here!

Read part three here!

Warnings: if you have any experience with kidnapping this is not the fic for you! I tried to make all descriptions as vague and go over the actual hostage part as quickly as possible but I wouldn't recommend you read something like this if you think it might trigger you. also food mentions, alcohol mentions, cursing, mention of blood, gore, injury, and death, intruders, drugs and drug cartels (other narcos related themes) very very scary situations.

Rating: 18+

Word count: 3k

Authors note: thank you for the request! I'm so glad you liked the first part enough to want a follow-up. I must admit, I did struggle with writing this as I'm not familiar with writing situations like this … but I was in my element writing the fluff at the start!!! I hope you enjoy. 

Masterlist • submit requests 

This was never supposed to happen. You had sworn to Javier that you'd get through this together. Javier had been foolish for believing the Capo and his cartel would have left you alone; and risk their entire distribution. Javier Peña was one of the agents who took down Pablo Escobar; and he was a force that shouldn't be reckoned with. Cartels all across South America knew of him and knew to be aware of him. The Capo wanted a bullet in his brain, but he knew that getting close to someone like Javier wouldn't be easy.

Since Escobar, Javier had gotten a brilliant promotion. He now has his own team behind him, not to mention his own security who would follow him around on his endeavours. It really helped ease Javier's anxiety, knowing that he had people on constant watch who would protect him, but more importantly, would protect you.

You didn't like it; all the fancy security following your every move. You'd visit the launderette just a few blocks away, and they'd follow your every move. But there was nothing you could do about it. They were under firm instruction by Javier, and there was nothing you could do that would change Javier's mind. He needed to know that you were protected.

However, on the day of Javier's birthday, things changed. Javier headed to work early that morning, claiming he could get his papers signed quickly and be home by around 4pm, having the whole evening and night to celebrate with him.

It wasn't often you got to spend time with Javier and since it was such a special occasion, you wanted to make it special. You had been planning for his birthday weeks in advance. Javi wasn't one for parties, and he had planned travelling back to Texas in a fortnight to see his family. It would be your first chance at meeting them. He told you over and over again, no parties. He just wanted a special night in the apartment with you.

But you had to surprise your boyfriend in some way. You had called up his old partner and one of his best friends, Steve Murphy and invited him over for the weekend. You knew Javi would love a few beers and a catch-up with Steve. Steve had called you yesterday morning and told you he had just arrived in Colombia. He was going to surprise Javier in work, on his birthday. You knew that, by now, Javi and Steve were probably together in the office, bickering like they used to. You just wished you could've seen the smile on Javier's face when Steve surprised him.

The beaming rays of sunlight woke you up later than expected. You found yourself wearing Javier's pink button down shirt, and a smile spread across your lips as you reminiced on the amazing night you had before. Ever since the incident with the capo, and Javi's injury, Javier has struggled to cope with it. He had gotten better at talking about his feelings, but it did initiate a certain trauma within him. You were, however, seeing improvements in his nature. Things were finally looking up for both of you.

Your smile grew when you picked up on the infused scent of laundry detergent and cigarettes. You'd much rather be in Javier's arms right now, but wearing his shirt was the next best thing. Merrily, you slipped into the kitchen, the hem of his shirt grazing your thighs. You checked the time on your wrist watch; it was 8:40am. Your security would arrive at your flat at 9am prompt. You poured out three glasses of orange juice for them and put on your favourite record. You decided on skipping breakfast, because you had a feast planned for Javier's birthday dinner. His favourite food was from this local Chinese take-out and you had arranged all his favourite dishes to be delivered to your house.

You didn't plan on leaving the house today, except to go to the bakery to pick up his birthday cake. You walked over to the closet to grab your balloons and streamers. You were going to wait until security arrived so they could help you decorate the house but you decided there was no harm in getting a head start.

Head deep into the closet, you swore you heard your front door open. You brushed it off, thinking you had probably just nudged something on one of the shelves. You clambered out of the small cupboard, hands full of decorations, and went to carry them into the kitchen. Just before you got there, you heard a glass clink against the counter. You thought it was weird, but maybe it was just security. Maybe they had arrived early and were helping themselves to the orange juice you had prepared. 

"Okay boys!" you shouted, juggling packets of balloons, banners, confetti, and streamers in your arms, being careful that nothing dropped to the floor. "We have a lot to do today. As you know, it's Javi's birthday and so-" you froze when your eyes locked onto the three men standing in your apartment.

They weren't your security, but they sure as hell had drunk your orange juice. Stood before you were three men, clad in military print overalls and gold chains. "Uhm…" you stumbled backwards slightly, dropping most of the decorations in your arms. "Can I help you?" you asked. You peered behind the three men and noticed the lock on the door had snapped off. These men were intruders.

The man in the centre, had jet black curly hair and he shot you a hungry smile. He stepped forward, caressing your arm and his smile only grew when you shivered under his touch.

"Who are you?" you spat when no one responded to you. "Why are you here?" 

"She's such a pretty little thing, isn't she?" one of the men purred, while the other nodded his head in silent agreement.

"Whatever you want… money? I can get you it just- please don't do anything stupid." you tried negotiating, something Javier had always taught you to do if you had ever found yourself in a situation such as this one.

The capo grabbed your throat with a sudden force and you let out a yelp. He pushed your chin up with his two fingers, forcing you to look into his eyes. "We were looking for agent Peña," the capo explained, a glint in his eyes. "But I think you might be the next best thing." he smirked, pushing you down to your knees.

You landed on the oak wood floor with a thud. "Tie her up." the capo commanded; and his two sicarios obediently followed his instruction, taking thick piece of rope and tying it around your wrists. You could feel it begin to graze and cut at your skin as you tried to escape from their firm grip.

"My boyfriend- if you don't let me go he'll kill you when he finds out about this. You don't want to get personal with Javier, I'm warning you." you said through tear filled eyes and gritted teeth.

"Actually, agent Peña got personal with us first, when he tried and failed going undercover to our headquarters. He thought we wouldn't catch on," the capo laughed. "He promised us he'd keep his mouth shut and we'd let him walk three. But we followed him home. We've been tracking your phone calls with him for months now. We know he lied to us. We know he's been seeing a therapist about what happened. We have cameras deployed out in the street… watching your every move. Looking into your windows…"

One of the sicarios nodded his head and took a swing of the orange juice. "Ooh sir, you should've seen her and agent Peña last night. I got it recorded-"

"What the fuck? You sick pervert!" You screamed, trying to scramble to your feet. It was no use. The capo kicked his foot into your back and you fell back down on your face. You groaned, trying to catch your balance when you felt something salty drip into your mouth. It was blood. Your nose was bleeding.

"Listen, if you just play along to with our little game, everything will be okay. Except for agent Peña of course… but you know, you still have a chance of making it out here alive!" the capo cackled, hysteria dripping from his tongue. "So when will your dashing DEA agent be home?" 

You shook your head, refusing to answer. Javier wouldn't be home for hours. Fuck, you really didn't know what to do. "My security will beat the shit out of you." you snarled, but felt so defeated knowing your threats were empty.

The capo let out another laugh. "Aw, she must think the security that we annihilated in the corridor would return from the dead to protect her?"

"Holy shit, you killed them?" you hissed in disbelief.

One of the sicarios held out a knife, stained deep in blood. He held it to your neck, wiping the blood of your security on your skin. You were out of options. You were so afraid. 

***

"Noonan still an ass?" Steve chuckled, lighting Javier's cigarette. Javi took a puff and nodded his head.

"Yeah, but she has her moments," Javier shrugged. "She's letting me get off work early today."

"Birthday privilege?" Steve pointed out and Javier nodded his head in agreement.

"It's been so good to see you, but I gotta head home to see my girl." Javier smirked and Steve wolf whistled.

"Yeah? How's she doing by the way?" Steve asked and Javier felt a blush creep upon his cheeks at the mere thought of you.

"She's good, she's good." Javier grinned like a Cheshire cat.

"Never in a million years did I think my friend Javier Peña would actually settle down," Steve laughed and Javier nudged his arm playfully. "I owe Connie twenty bucks!" 

Javier rolled his eyes and stubbed out his cigarette. "Come over later for a few drinks, yeah?" Javier pulled Steve in for a long awaited hug.

"I'd like that bud, I'll bring the beers." Steve replied and offered Javier a comforting pat on the back. "I'll see you later."

On the drive home, Javier completely forgot it was his birthday. His mind was just consumed with you— the love of his life. You were the only person who looked after him, cared for him, and were constantly at his beck and call. He chastised you for it and he told you that you did too much for him, but your compassionate nature truly meant so much to him.

After an amazing night with you, he couldn't wait to surprise you at home. He couldn't wait to pick you up and hold you in his arms. It was still morning, so it meant he could spend the whole day with you.

His excitement was cut short when he pulled up into the driveway of his apartment complex. He saw three black vans with tinted windows, and recognised them from his encounter with the drug cartel months ago. A knot tightened in his throat. Quietly, he hopped out of his own truck and entered his building. Making his way through the maze of hallways, his heart dropped when he found his three security guards lying dead against the walls outside his home, their blood soaking through the carpet.

Javier's instincts were to bolt inside your shared apartment and rescue you. He knew for a fact you were in danger— that they were in there, holding you hostage. But he had to think logically. They wanted Javi dead, and he didn't know what the numbers would be like.

Javier backed off down the corridor and took out his cell phone. "Hey Steve? Are you still at the Embassy? I think the cartel has y/n. I need your help. And call for the other agents; we need serious backup!" Javier explained a thorough plan to Steve on the phone, who promised Javier he'd be there within minutes. And Steve Murphy always kept his words.

While Javier waited, he looted the bodies of his security for any weapons they had possessed. He hid a gun under his pants and slid a knife into his pocket. When he saw Steve at the front gate, pulling up with a van filled with fellow agents, he offered him a nod of acknowledgement. This was where Javier's plan started. He was going in.

Javier had decided to play it cool and pretend like he didn't have his whole team behind him. He opened the unlocked front door yelling an unfamiliar "honey I'm home!". Javier never said anything like this and so he hoped, by hearing this, you would catch on that he had it covered.

His heart was racing in his chest when he caught a glimpse of you, tied to a chair wearing only his shirt. You had silver electrical tape around your mouth and blood that Javi prayed wasn't yours. Your eyes were puffy from your tears and fear prevailed through them. He muttered your name and hurried to your side, falling to his knees and taking out the knife from his pocket.

"You're okay baby, you're okay I'm here. I've got you." Your whimpers broke his heart. He sliced open the rope, releasing your hands. "How many are there?" he whispered into your ear. You managed to hold up three fingers and Javier gulped, starting to unbind your ankles when he felt a gun press in between his shoulder blades.

Javier removed his hands from you and raised them in a surrender position above his own head. Javier stood up straight and turned around to face the capo, gun now pointing into his chest. He recognised the two sicarios behind him from last time.

"Whatever you need, I can get for you." Javier promised, lowering his hand to the barrel of the gun and cautiously pushing it away from him. "I have money."

"What we needed was your silence… your honesty, agent Peña. And we needed that about three months ago."

"I didn't say shit to the DEA," Javier spat angrily.

"But you told her, didn't you?" the capo pointed his gun at you and you let out another frightened whimper, closing your eyes, petrified.

"You shoot either of us? It's life in prison. Your whole cartel goes bust. Don't make a mistake here." Javier just needed to buy a little more time….

"She told me it was your birthday," the capo chuckled. "How ironic. You were born today, you die today."

Just then, your front door burst off the hinges as Steve Murphy and an army of about 20 agents bolted through the tiny apartment, immediately shooting down the two sicarios and Steve held a gun to the capo's head. You could hear police and ambulance sirens outside as tears began to stream down your face. Your hope was cut short when the capo fired his gun.

You screamed as the pressure from the bullet knocked you off your chair and two the ground. He had shot right in your chest, just next to your collarbone. The pain was blinding and you curled your fingers into a fist. Another gunshot; and Steve had shot the capo down. Javier screamed your name and ran to your side, cradling you in his arms. He gently ripped the tape off your mouth and freed your ankles. 

"I've got you baby, hey stay with me. I've got you." he whispered, nursing you in his arms.

"Javi," you choked out, wincing in pain.

"Can someone get me a flannel and there's a first aid kit under the bathroom sink!" Javier cried out, his voice hoarse as his red hot blood coursed through his veins. "Keep your eyes open. Keep looking at me. There's an ambulance outside. There'll be up here any minute."

"Javi… I love you so much." you sobbed. The pain was becoming unbearable and your eyes fluttered shut.

Javi cupped your cheek as one of the agents passed him a flannel and the med kit. He began to apply pressure to your wound. "Stay with me, stay with me angel. I love you."

Your breathing began to hitch and Javier was so afraid he was going to lose you for good. He was going to lose the love of his life. If anyone was meant to be shot, it should've been him. He cursed himself. It should've fucking been him.

Paramedics raced over to you and pulled Javier back. "Be careful with her." Javier exhaled, his hands shaking as Steve steadied him.

"She's going to be okay." Steve reassured his friends. "She's in good hands."

Permanent taglist (let me know if you would like to be added!):  @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic

"This is all my fucking fault Steve." Javier cried, falling to his knees as his heart shattered into a million pieces. "This is all my fault."

NEXT PART

[violet-knox]

Signals

Year 7 - Chapter 66

Summary: You meet up with Connor in the library but start to worry when Severus takes longer than expected to join you after his meeting with Slughorn.

Word count: 2182

Warnings: Swearing? (I supposed)

A/N: This chapter didn’t end up as I first planned, I’m started to feel a bit repetitive in my storyline, but I suppose we shall see where it takes us. Also it turned out rather short (oops). Hopefully it’s length doesn’t minimize the plot or importance of what happens here. 

Previous Chapter - Chapter 1 

~

Looking over at the clock on the wall in the corner of the library you’d invaded with Connor, you began to worry Severus had forgotten about your agreement to meet here after his talk with Slughorn. He spoke of nothing but his interest in joining the Society of Potioneers after graduation as a member in training these past couple of weeks, building his profile to submit the application that was due beginning of April. Slughorn was well connected, he made sure the whole world knew that, and Severus knew a reference from him would push his application beyond his competitors and better his chances of receiving an acceptance. Supporting him was the only thing you felt like you could do, completely helpless as you yourself were struggling with figuring out life after Hogwarts. But it was enough for him and you were grateful for that. 

Since the start of this year, your excitement for graduation had only grown stronger, even with the weighing dread of stress hanging over you as you riffled through your career options. Nothing would please you more than to play Quidditch for the rest of your life, but the odds of being accepted into a team was very unlikely considering your age and lack of experience, but you had to try nonetheless. Severus of course had nothing negative to say about your application, pushing you to it and supporting you as you did for him. 

“He’s brave for trying to get a reference out of Slughorn,” Connor commented when you told him about Severus’ adventures today. “I’ve heard rumours that asking a favour of him is like selling your soul to the devil.”

You laughed at his comparison, Connor smiling in turn. Your friendship with him had been quite the gift this year, even if Severus found him to be intrusive at time. Connor was there for you when Severus wasn’t, he was a breath of fresh air from all the drama your class had created over the years. You’d even grown to enjoy helping him with his assignments and studies despite the repetitiveness and you knew Severus shared that same pleasure despite him claiming otherwise. You were going to miss him next year and from that longing look in his eyes that appeared every time you spoke about graduation, you knew he’d miss you and Severus too. 

“Severus is brilliant at Potions, best in our year. Slughorn would be a fool for not offering him a reference,” you said confidently, worry Severus was taking so long because Slughorn had decided otherwise growing like a seed buried in the back of your mind. “And if he ends up ‘selling his soul’, then I’m sure Severus will find a way to get it back.”

Smirking, you imagined him emerging triumphant after going toe to toe with the Devil himself. Severus was a rather mischievous person, ambitious enough to chase his goals, never faltering, never giving up. There was nothing you could imagine Slughorn doing or saying that would stop Severus from obtaining that reference. But no matter what happened, no matter the reason for his current tardiness, you would be there to support him, to comfort him and cheer for him. 

“I’ll miss these talks next year,” Connor said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. You looked at his eyes that could brighten the darkest of nights, a smile already etching on the corner of his lips as his sadness turned into hope. Friendship had always been the strongest magic you’d known, even after you found out you were a Witch. Nothing you’d learned at Hogwarts could ever compare to the strength true friends drew from one another and when you met Severus, you’d learned of a new form of magic, one you were sure could conquer all. 

“So will I,” you smiled back at him, assuring him he wasn’t the only one who cherished the sudden friendship that had grown between you. “But we’ll write to you, or at least, I will. And you could always come visit over the holidays.”

“I’d like that.” Connor’s smile grew wider, his eyes sparkling with hope, something you’d clearly misunderstood as he slowly stretched out his hand to place over yours. Your eyes shot to his in confusion, his filled with curiosity and optimism. You felt your heart sink at the realization that Severus’ absurd claims hadn’t been so irrational after all, you were only too naive, too blind to see it. You’d wanted so badly to believe the friendship between Connor and Severus could benefit them both, but it seemed like an illusion now, a blindfold you’d placed over your eyes out of sheer denial.  

“Connor I-” you whispered, trying to find the words to explain you had no interest in him the way he did for you when you found yourself interrupted by a familiar voice. 

“What’s going on?” Whipping your head to the side, you found Severus standing there with his arms crossed, eyes shooting daggers at you both, fumes rising from off his body. You’d never seen him so angry before, not even when Lily had stopped talking to him or when James had saved him from the Whomping Willow. You jumped to your feet in fear of whatever conclusion he’d made, needing to deescalate the situation before it got any worse. 

“Nothing,” you said calmly, your eyes completely and utterly focussed on him as you slowly approached him. You felt like he was on the edge of a cliff he could never recover from if he took another step forward. Your heart raged with fright at how quickly the situation had flown out of hand and you were completely powerless to stop Severus from jumping off the deep end. But nothing scared you more than the very real possibility you were just about to lose Severus, that he’d never come back to you after stepping off the edge of the dangerous territory he was crossing now.

“We were just talking about-” Connor’s voice was so much smaller than you were used to, you almost didn’t recognize it when he spoke. 

“About how you want to be with my girlfriend?” Your heart nearly stopped as he tumbled, your hand grasping to catch his, holding him tightly to try and pull him from off that cliff. He’d spoken before he thought of what consequences his words may bring, about how venomous his tone was, poisoning those around him. 

“What?” You could hear Connor almost choking on the word. Daring to look back, you saw him staring at you both wide eyed with shock, the exact thing you were hoping to avoid when you’d decided together you wouldn’t tell Connor you were dating. Your own anger boiled as you saw the hurt in Connor’s eyes. Severus had gone from defensive and upset to vigorous and unstable in mere moments. 

“Severus.” You spoke in a calming yet stern voice, a bit of warning thrown his way in fear of what may happen next if he didn’t recoil from where he stood. He’d already made the situation so much worse when he so bluntly accused Connor of doing something you didn’t even get the chance to correct. Things would have been fine if you’d just explained to Connor you weren’t interested, if Severus had only shown up thirty seconds later. 

“I-I didn’t know you two were dating,” Connor said and you could tell by his tone he was beyond taken back by the mess that had unfolded before you. Your Ravenclaw friend didn’t know Severus as well as you did, he didn’t know Severus only tends to overreact like this when he’s under immense pressure and stress. His meeting with Slughorn hadn’t gone well, you could tell and you knew that had to be the reason why he was acting so rash.  

“LIAR,” Severus howled, completely ignoring the fact you were all still in the library. You felt yourself shrivel at his sudden burst in volume, your heart racing but you kept your eyes on him, taking a step forward hoping he could still be pulled back from off that damn cliff. “You knew, you just didn’t care you filthy mu-”

“SEVERUS!” You shouted, absolutely stunned at the line he so easily crossed without a second thought. You stared at him in horror as he finally seemed to snap out of his anger fueled hysteria when you caught his hand as he hung off the cliff of devotion, a sea of darkness sitting beneath him, waiting to gobble him up. His eyes softened as he realized what he’d done, darting between you and Connor as he fell completely speechless. 

Flashbacks to fifth year filled his mind as you looked at him with disappointment, his anger now transferred to you. You had that same look on your face as Lily, the same look of betrayal and resentment when he’d uttered that awful word to her. He knew it was too good to be true, that it would never last, that he was destined to live alone. A year of working at your relationship, a full year of true happiness and stability and he’d ruined it in seconds, sure there was nothing he could say or do this time to make up for it just as Lily had stated nearly two years ago. 

“I think I’ll make my way,” Connor mumbled as he gathered his belongings, avoiding looking at either of you. Severus could see the hurt in his eyes, the devastation for what he’d done. He wanted to apologize, to find the magic words that would undo what he’s done, but they didn’t exist, he’d learned that the hard way. Looking back at you, he waited to watch you pack up as well, leave him and walk off with Connor, abandoning him, but you didn’t move.

“Connor, I’m sorry,” you said sincerely, apologizing for the boy who just stood there like a lost puppy, wearing a frown on his face rather than trying to reprimand what he just said. 

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault,” Connor shot Severus a rather harsh look, something you never thought you’d see from the kind Ravenclaw before throwing his bag over his shoulders and walking away. Logic told you to follow, to run after Connor and explain yourself, comfort him and make sure he was okay, but it wasn’t him you worried about. It wasn't him you loved, and you couldn’t leave Severus alone now. Judging by the utter broken look on his face, he needed you more than Connor. 

Severus watched with his heart tearing in half as you packed up your own things, your anger free to expand now that Connor had left. He felt tears prickle the corners of his eyes as he thought of how happy he’d been with you, mourning the loss of something so good, something he’d learned to depend on so heavily over the last few years, he couldn’t imagine living without you anymore. 

“(Y/N).” His throat was so dry, your name came out hoarse as he spoke, reaching out to try and stop you, but he couldn’t bring himself to go near you, afraid he’d only worsen the situation. He felt powerless as you picked up your bag only to be surprised when you took hold of his hand and dragged him along with you. Neither of you spoke a single word as you led him out of the library, your hand holding him tightly, your anger pouring out into each stride you took. 

“(Y/N), w-where are we going?” he asked cautiously, the power he held back in the library completely vanished as his voice shrank. Never did he think he’d fear you, the girl who’d supported him over the years, who’d never had anything negative to say about him, but in this moment, he worried over whatever was on your mind. He could only imagine what consequences you had in store for what he’d done, how you’d break up with him and hand him back everything he’d given you, everything that represented the love between you.  

“Somewhere where we can talk without the entire school hearing us,” you gritted between your teeth without so much as giving him a glance. You could feel your anger bubbling the closer you got to the astronomy tower, once a place of solitude, friendship, love and acceptance now to be a place of rage, disappointment and devastation. You were not looking forward to the discussion you were about to have with him, something you never thought you’d have to do. It scared you to realize you didn’t know Severus as well as you thought, that he still held such resentment, such hate within him. But most of all, it scared you to realize that you might not be able to get through to him, to help him and support him like you thought you had over the last few years. You wanted so badly to believe your love for him would get you through this, but after what happened today, you weren’t sure if it would be enough anymore.

~

Next Chapter

~

[valhahazred]

Cryptid Mythos bonus! Everything that appears on this sheet is an entity reported by real people. Why no Mythos this time? Because these encounters are so strange in appearance or behavior that they could slip right into the Sothic multiverse with little to no alteration or alternative explanation. Good luck Investigators!

All Colours Sam In 1973, in the town of Sandown, 7 year old “Fay” and an unnamed friend encountered a very strange individual as they explored the fringes of a golf course. They first became aware of something weird going on when they heard a sound like an ambulance siren in the distance. Following the sound to a footbridge over a creek, the two children were confronted by a three fingered hand wearing a blue glove that beckoned them from beneath the bridge. Awaiting them was a seven foot humanoid figure wearing strange clownish clothing, seemingly reinforced with wooden slats that protruded from his sleeves and pant-legs. The figure had a book in his hands, which he immediately fumbled and dropped in the water. He splashed around cartoonishly before recovering his book, leaping out of the creek and away from the children. He moved to a small metal shed with a high-kneed hopping gait and disappeared inside. The children went to leave, only for the mysterious entity to exit again with a microphone that appeared to be the source of the wailing that drew the children in the first place. It spoke into the microphone in a friendly, non-threatening tone. “Are you still here?” The children were curious and unafraid, so they moved towards him. He held up his book and pointed at the words in order to introduce himself. “Hello and I am all colours, Sam”. They asked if he was human and he said no and when asked if he was a ghost he replied, “well, not really but I am in an odd sort of way.” The children asked what he was then and he simply said, “You know.” During their conversation with the entity they learned that although he went by Sam, he didn’t really have a name, he claimed that there were others like him and that he was afraid of humans and that he was a pacifist, refusing to harm others even if they should attack him. He invited them into his hut, where he shared some wildberries and showed them a magic trick, where he placed a berry into his ear and seemingly teleported it to his mask’s eyehole and then to his mouth with quick jerks of his head. They continued to converse for almost an hour before the children decided to leave. Was he an alien in a make-do disguise? An animated scarecrow? A figment of childish imaginations? Or just a strange homeless man dressed like a clown? Whatever the truth, All Colours Sam, also known as the Sandown Ghost Clown, was never seen again. The Crazy Critter of Bald Mountain This weird looking creature was sighted by three people in the week following a fiery object that passed over the Bald Mountain near Newaukum Lake in Washington. When the local Sheriff began an investigation into the sighting he was visited by heavily armed and uniformed men who claimed to be from the Air Force and forced him to give up the case. Old Saybrook Blockheads Mary Starr was awoken in the early morning on December 16, 1957 by a bright light shining into her bedroom. She looked out the window to witness a 30 foot cigar shaped craft hovering over her yard, less than 10 feet from her house! Inside the apparent spaceship she witnessed a pair of small creatures with fleshy skirts and clear cubic “heads” containing a floating red bulb. They raised their right arms and as a third entity appeared in the portholes the ship brightened before shooting off into the sky. Space Brains of Palos Verdes As John Hodges and Pete Rodriguez were leaving a party at two in the morning they were not expecting to meet anything from out of this world but as the car turned on its headlights illuminated two bizarre entities! The men panicked and drove away, ending the story for Rodriguez as he made it home with no complications. However, in Hodges case he next became aware of himself two and a half hours later in the driveway of his home, sitting in the car as if in a trance. Troubled by the missing time, he eventually went for hypnosis in an attempt to recover his memories of the night. While under regression he claimed that while he got his friend home safely, when he returned to his own residence the disembodied brains were waiting for him! He asked them what they wanted and suddenly he was elsewhere, in a dark room with entities that looked like the classic Greys but very tall and with webbed six fingered hands and yellow eyes. They explained that the brains were “merely translators” used in order for these beings to interface telepathically with humans. He claimed they warned him that Earth had “too much power” and showed him a map of the planet covered in lights that indicated places where humans might destroy themselves. They showed him images of dead planets and made several inaccurate prophecies before he suddenly found himself back in his car. Unlike many other abductees with similar experiences Hodges did not try to make excuses for their bunk predictions or feel like it made him important in any way. He simply assumed the aliens were untrustworthy and were playing with him. The Casa Blanca Entities This is one of the strangest and most confusing accounts of a Close Encounter of the Fifth kind, as eight children ranging from the ages of four to fifteen were terrorized by a parade of extraterrestrial monsters one summer day in 1955. It started with an array of UFOs, sun-like, disk-shaped and semi-transparent, appearing and disappearing with musical pings. Then came the entities. First was a ghostly being bearing a shiny belt buckle that was so brilliant it could blind someone looking straight at it. It was followed by disembodied arms in riveted armor that seemed to beckon to the children, small strange men that used dual ray guns to paralyze and finally a many limbed creature. All through this strange arrival something spoke to the children telepathically, offering to take them away. The kids they spoke to often seemed to be entranced, moving to the dancing UFOs mindlessly and required physical force or even being hosed down to snap them out. One child even fell off a roof in an attempt to reach a UFO, only to be protected by a red force field. The weirdest part of all is that not only did adults not see anything, they couldn’t. Despite being present for the event a mother of one of the children was unaware of the paranormal happenings. Does this mean it was all in the children’s heads, as they were overtaken by some kind of playground hysteria? Or is there some alien force that not only wants our children but can make themselves invisible to undesirable observers. The Garson Invaders In 1954 three of these insectoid entities appeared to Canadian miner Ennio La Sarza. Their appearance was already exceptional by the usual standards of reported alien contact but in a particularly striking detail their faces appeared to glow in colours La Sarza had never seen before! The beings asked La Sarza to do something for them but he refused, not only to do it but to even speak of it. It was so awful and “outright apocalyptic” that he even considered asking the RCMP to lock him up in case the creatures he’d met had some way to enforce his cooperation. The Poole Pyramid This multi-hued metallic pyramid appeared in 1965 to seven year old Terrence Druce of Poole in Dorset when he awoke to it hovering over the foot of his bed. He shrieked in terror, waking his younger brother in time for him to also witness it as it faded into thin air. That encounter might have never been recorded if the brothers hadn’t seen it again the very next day, lurking in a parking lot. They said it seemed aware of their presence and turned to watch them but it did not follow them when they decided to flee the scene. Delta Dogs An anonymous woman was driving through a snowstorm on route 07 through Syracuse in January 1958. She came across what at first seemed to be a downed plane but as she approached her engine slowly ran itself down and the car stopped itself. As she desperately tried to restart the car the snowstorm calmed and more details became apparent. Projecting out of the large object she’d thought was a plane crash was a 50 foot illuminated pole. Two strange beings rose up along the pole, floating by it as it started to retract. When the pole finished sinking into the object the creatures disappeared and the craft took off so fast she couldn’t make out where it went. The Electric Serpent of Tacoma This is easily the most unusual sighting of a sea creature that I’ve ever heard of. Seven men camping on the shore of Black Fish Bay in 1893 encountered a sea monster that appeared to be cybernetic, if not entirely biomechanical! Disturbed by a horrible noise and blinding lights the men left their camp to find a huge, hairy walrus-like animal with steaming horns, bands of coppery metal and a revolving propeller-like tail! One of the men approached it to get a better look, only to be struck by an electric blast from its copper bands and fell to the ground as if dead. When one of his friends tried to pull him to safety, he was likewise shocked by the impossible animal. The other men fled into the woods after seeing two of their number seemingly killed and the Electric Serpent seemed to lose interest and swam out into Puget Sound. Once they were sure it was gone the remaining men returned to the beach and were elated to find their friends burned and stunned but still very much alive! So what happened? Was it just one of the sadly common newspaper hoaxes of the time? Or did a bunch of 19th century fishermen find a literal fucking pokemon? You decide! Stickmen The Stickmen are an extremely recent phenomenon, with reports starting within the last 10 years or so. They are described as being stick thin and roughly humanoid, sometimes with bubble heads, glowing eyespots or even top hats. They range in size from human-like to towering in excess of 20 feet. What is most interesting about them is their apparent two dimensionality, sometimes appearing the same no matter what angle they are viewed at and sometimes being able to turn to the side and vanish as though they were never there. They are also frequently reported as being accompanied by a feeling like static electricity and of aggression or hostility. Despite those impressions the Stickmen do not appear to be hostile, instead seeming surprised and immediately retreating from a witness.

[herondaleholly31]

Only Angel  Harry Styles X Reader

Overview: A night you and Harry will never forget, which included a black satin slip and a hotel room in the city that never sleeps. 

Soft smut

A/N: LISTEN TO ONLY ANGEL WHILST READING THIS IT BRINGS THE VIBE PERFECTLY.  Thought I’d write something a little different today. It’s my first time I’ve written something like this but I like it! Hope you do too. Just gotta respect and love the definition of perfection: Mr Harry Styles. 

Like and comment! 

Word count: 2400

Harry was dripping in sweat. He could feel the back of his jacket stuck, and when he tried to shrug it off, he could feel the shirt peel away from his back. It was another outfit that was going to have to be dry cleaned, but he didn't care. The crowd had been one of the best of the tour yet, and he could still feel the pure adrenaline scorching through every pore, making him skittish as him and the group of staff and friends followed him down the winding corridors of the arena. You had said that you were going to get him a little later at the hotel, so he wanted to get out now to avoid getting stuck in the New York traffic. 

"Brilliant as always," Beth the stylist raised her water bottle to him as he entered his dressing room. "Thanks," he smiled. "I'm sorry, I've got another outfit to be cleaned if that's okay." "You can wear the trousers and shirt back, there's no point in those being rushed cleaned. Give me the jacket, I'll get it sent out tomorrow with the others." "You're amazing." Harry tried to unbutton all the small rose buttons that kept the bottom of the metallic rose jacket tight to his torso. Luckily, the shirt underneath was white, so the sweat wasn't that obvious, so he would be able to blend into the crowd a little more comfortable in case he had to make a quick getaway. Unluckily, the jacket was fiddly, and he was in such a rush, his fingers kept slipping, and he started to get agitated. "Come here," Beth waved him over and then bent down to help, her fingers a lot more nimble and calm. 

"You're in a rush to get out of here."

"Y/N is meeting me at the hotel, I don't want to keep her waiting." 

"Ohh," Beth smirked and raised an eyebrow "you've got plans or something?" Harry was trying not to get his hopes up too much, but yes. It was all he'd been thinking about during the last songs, and he had made sure to not prolong the encore any more than it needed to be. By the time he was singing Kiwi, he had felt his gut twisting so much in anticipation that he had struggled to get some of the lyrics out. 

"I just don't want to get sidetracked by anybody from Sony," he said instead. "I'm here tomorrow, they can catch me then. Oh," he was running around the room now, free of his jacket, picking up his phone charger and the keys to the hotel, "could you tell Mitch and the guys that I won't be able to go for drinks tonight? I did mention it earlier, but I would hate for them to think I've forgotten."

 "It's okay, they know that Y/N is here. Now go," she pushed him playfully out the door, "There's a taxi waiting for you at exit five. I'll see you back here at three tomorrow." Harry did a thumbs up 

"You're an angel, Beth."

 "Tell Y/N I said hi!" Beth yelled down the corridor at Harry's retreating back. Harry was already scrambling with everything in his hands while sending you a quick text: Will be with you soon. As promised, a black car with tinted windows was waiting at the exit. The driver was leaning against the bonnet, but as soon as he saw Harry, he jumped up and ran to open the door. 

"Where to Mr styles?" he barked with a strong New York accent.

 "The Conrad please Micheal," Harry smiled. The gates were already rattling open as Michel gunned out into the alleyways behind Madison Square Garden, able to change routes quick as a flash when a massive wave of people burst out from the arena. Even though the windows were opaque Harry shrank slightly in his seat, reading the text you had just sent with a small smirk. Don't be too long….

"How long, Micheal?" Harry called.

"20 minutes Mr styles," Micheal looked through the rearview window and spoke over the noise of the city around them. 

20 minutes. He could survive that.

 But as the minutes counted down, Harry's leg jiggled more and more, and the veins on his arms started to protruded as he fought to keep his mind and body under control. It felt like hours when realistically it'd only been minutes when Micheal pulled into the side entrance of the Conrad hotel. Already there was another large crowd of fans and photographers at the front entrance which could prove a problem tomorrow morning, but it meant that tonight no one was going to be leaving his hotel room. Good. He didn't need to leave with the plans he was envisioning. Wishing Micheal good night Harry darted out, smiled briefly and nodded at the usher waiting at the door, and hopped into the elevator waiting open for him. He clicked the floor number, the doors closed, then clicked it three more times as if to speed it up. There was a ding, and the doors opened, and Harry tore down the corridor to the large double doors at the end. He skidded to a holt and breathed for a second. She might be exhausted or asleep. Don't just tear in there and assume that she's going to want to jump on you. Even though a small selfish part of him protested, Harry beat that back. She's here, that's the best part out of all of this. 

When he opened the door, Harry did not notice the candles or the bath full of bubbles, or the glasses of champagne looking over the glittering view of central park. All he could see was you, and the black slip dress. 

His jaw dropped. He blinked, shook his head, then looked again. The slip was satin and rippled gorgeously over your body, so you looked like liquid midnight. Lace edged the skirt and the bust, drawing his eyes to your chest, dropping his phone on the floor in hysteria when he saw that you weren't wearing a bra. 

"Hi honey," you smiled sweetly, feigning innocence by crossing your arms behind your back. "Did you miss me?" 

Harry fell to his knees. Breathing hard, he started rubbing his hands up and down his thighs, then through his hair, as he tried to comprehend at what he was looking at. "Fuck me," he whispered.

 "I heard the show went really well," you went on while surreptitiously pulling the back of the dress, so the hem slipped a little higher up your leg. "I could hear the screams from here at one point." Harry wasn't listening. As you took a step forward, he seemed to almost whimper as he looked at you, his pupils so dark in the dim light that for a moment, he appeared to be controlled by the image of you. He started crawling towards you, slowly with anticipation, trying to find the right words to say. He had lost the feeling in his legs; they didn't seem to need blood with the way his gut was roaring. He couldn't take his eyes off you.

"Aren't you going to say you missed me?" You teased, pointing a foot out as if to stop him from coming closer, enjoying the way his eyes seemed to throb out of his head with excited shock. Slowly, Harry pushed your foot down, closing the gap, so he was knelt down on the floor in front of you. He reached out and placed both of his hands on the back of your calves. The skin was soft from being recently shaved, and it was heavenly to touch. Taking his time, he started to trail his fingers slowly up, fluttering at the back of your knees, before travelling up further to the soft mound of your thighs. He moved his thumbs to part your thighs slightly and then plant one light kiss on the inside of your leg, his eyes never leaving yours. This time you were the one to gasp, and seeing you from this angle was enough to undo Harry right there. Further and further his hands went up, trailing the thigh, then the curve of your bum where they rested for a moment. Instinctively you squeezed your legs together, and Harry enjoyed knowing he could still do that to you. He liked seeing you like this though; powerful, in charge, confident in who you were. That alone was driving him mad. He grazed your skin, going up and down with the tips of his fingers. His kisses peppered further up, touching each freckle, whilst you let one hand play with his hair, pulling it each time you felt his breath against your skin. He knew the rings he still wore were cold, so he took them off one by one, letting them drop onto the floor and roll away. You were still waiting for him to say something, but now you were also struggling with keeping your control, not wanting to break away from this moment just yet. Harry held onto the hem of the slip and used it to pull himself up, transferring his hands back to your bum and thighs when he stood over you. 

"I didn't feel anything underneath the slip love,” he was finally able to croak out. You grinned and deliberately looked him up and down, letting your eyes devour the sight of the man you'd been thinking about ever since he left. 

"That's because," you leaned into his chest,  your boobs pressed next to his raised heart rate, "I'm not wearing anything." Harry let out a ragged sigh, letting his head fall back as he fought every urge not to rip the slip off you right then. Instead, he leaned closer, his mouth to your ear, and lowered his voice, so it seemed to rumble in your ear. "God, I've missed you." You went to move your hands up to straps to take off the slip, but Harry shook his head. 

"Not yet." One arm moved around your waist, keeping you close to him as he gently swayed you back and forth. He was retaking control, and you let him. As he swayed, his hand drifted up and down, moving higher up your spine each time until he cupped your neck. His shirt was still sticking to his back, so when you mirrored his arms, the curve of his lower back into his shoulders was hard against your fingers. And then, not able to hold it any more, Harry gently brushed lips against yours. The overwhelming surge of impulse took over, and the kisses quickly changed from soft and sweet to hot and desperate. Harry felt as if he had woken up from an illness he didn't know had drained him as he kissed your neck and shoulders, seeing faint marks from when he'd done this before. Gripping your hips, Harry suddenly lifted you up, smirking in delight when you sat comfortably around his torso, wrapping your legs without hesitation around him. He walked over to the bed and deliberately put a knee up so as he fell, he could cup you against his body. You moulded perfectly together, whispering to you all the while about how much he'd missed you. 

"You're killing me," he laughed against your cheek when you deliberately squirmed against him. "How do you do this to me every time?"  His hair was already wild from performing, so it was so curly it tangled in your fingers, and you hummed in delight at how messy he looked. Harry went to move down, but couldn't help himself but kiss you on the lips again, the sound of breath coming from his nose loud in your ears. He laced his fingers between yours while biting the skin on your neck.  

 Harry started to move the slip up your body, running his hands over your thighs and then your hips, kissing the mole at the spot that rested just below your hip line. You readied to raise your body to his mouth, but he shook his head again, looking up at you in glee. The slip went higher, over your stomach now, and you both were surprised with the groan of delight that escaped Harry's lips as he nipped the natural roll that rested just under your boobs. He chuckled slightly in surprise, widening his eyes for a moment, but didn't stop as he massaged and gripped your sides, his mouth travelling up from your belly button to the valley of your chest. When he finally got the slip off your body, he sat up, his legs straddling you, so you were lying on the bed beneath him. He started to unbutton his shirt, letting it slowly fall open. He rolled his shoulders back, loosening his muscles and rolling his neck around, deliberately showing off the broadness of his shoulders as he shrugged the shirt to fall off behind him.  He drank you in, feeling your hips move, so you leaned up to look him in his crotch, making him gulp. There was nothing bashful about you, just dishevelled hair and skin unmarked like summer clouds. You had enjoyed seeing Harry's tattoos being revealed with every open button, until all you could see with the familiar markings on his chest and bicep, highlighted by the golden glow of his skin from the American sun. He kept his necklace on though, enjoying when he leaned back over you the way your eyes closed momentarily as he let his dangle over your face. He bunched up the stain slip and held it over you, gripping his tight in one fist. "Never get rid of this," he instructed. You smiled. You moved one hand to his waist, looking for his nod to continue. When he did, your hands worked quickly until it was just you two, united at last, and not even the noise of New York City could drown out the cries of his name. They echoed for hours later until Harry didn't want to hear his name screamed any other way. 

[itswildwinters]

Heyyyy! Was wondering if you have any rockstar Harry non famous Louis fic to recommend 🤭😭thanxx in advanceeee

Hi love! Sorry it took me so long, I had uni stuff to do! I hope this list satisfies you, I don’t usually read famous/nonfamous. They all are, I reckon, bottom Louis fics where Harry is a Rockstar/Popstar (a singer at least)... but always check the tags! ♥️

Famous/Nonfamous fic recs

• if it hurts to breathe, open the window

Louis looks wonderful himself, in a muscle shirt reading The Stone Roses and showing off all his own ink. His jeans are tighter than Harry’s, and there are dark circles under his eyes and his hair is tatty and wild, and there’s a sex bruise on the bend of his elbow Harry didn't give to him. (In which Harry is a rock star, Louis is a tattoo artist, and one night stands are never really just one night.)

• The Space Between by @alltheselights

Harry Styles is the alpha rockstar who can’t sleep and doesn’t know why.

Louis Tomlinson is the omega PhD student who helps him figure it out.

• Tired Tired Sea by @mediawhorefics

As a B&B owner on the most remote of all the British Isles, Louis Tomlinson is used to spending the coldest half of the year in complete isolation, with his dog and the sea as sole companions. Until, one day, a mysterious stranger on a quest to rebuild himself rents a room for the winter.

• make this feel like home by @soldouthaz

The house on West 28th Street in London is twice the size of Louis', more expensive than the price of all of his house and car payments combined, and is falling apart at the seams.

• tall stories on the page by @soldouthaz

harry's tired of being interviewed by people that only care about the same pointless gossip.

louis is a nice change of pace.

• You Could Have Moonlight in Your Hands

It's the usual work for Harry—with awestruck fans crowding his space, cellphone cameras in his face, and rude paparazzi loitering around in front of the building to take his pictures, his day is turning into a not-so-brilliant one. And then a beautiful man falls into his life. Literally.

• When It’s Late at Night by @all-these-larrythings

Louis has zero interest in an ex-boybander turned solo artist when his appearance on the show gets announced, but that's exactly who he gets stuck with when Harry Styles shows up at the Late Late show to promote the release of his debut album. For an entire fucking week.

• Roots by @cherrystreet

There aren’t many things that make Harry Styles nervous. He’s spent the past couple of years on and off various stages, filled with screaming fans, all chanting his name, loud and adoring. He’s done countless interviews, some even on live, national television, never faltering over his words, answers meticulously planned out, smooth and steady. He’s signed countless autographs, taken just as many photos, and even when he sat in his label’s studio, waiting to see how high up on the charts his single made it, he didn’t feel uneasy or uncomfortable. It’s all been unbelievably fun. No, there aren’t many things that make Harry Styles nervous.

Enter Louis Tomlinson.

• tangled up in you by missandrogyny

Harry blinks once. And blinks again. And says, his voice dangerous: “Niall, did you get me a mail-order bride?”

Because what the actual fuck. It kind of looks like Niall’s just purchased a person. For Harry.

Niall blinks back at him for a few moments, before throwing his head back and howling with laughter. Harry throws a pillow at him. Hard. “No, what the fuck, Harry.”

“A prostitute then?” Harry also doesn't want a prostitute.

“Of course not!”

“A stripper?”

“No!”

Damn, he’s running out of ideas. He settles for launching another pillow at Niall’s head. Niall bats it away easily, still laughing. “Stop!”

“What did you get me, then?!” Niall must hear the tinge of hysteria in his voice, because he’s pulling himself together, trying to stop himself from laughing.

There’s still a big grin on his face, though, when he says, “I got you a professional cuddler.”

A professional…what. “What?”

• My English Love Affair by @isthatyoularry

The thing about sleeping with a member of a famous indie band is that the inevitability of having a song written about you is most likely a hundred percent. The second thing is that in the end, nobody's supposed to find out it's about you.

The one where Harry writes a song about his English love affair and Louis sleeps with someone in White Eskimo and all he gets is a stupid song written about him.

• A Pleasant Side to You by @smrwine

Louis brought his palms up to his temples, easing the roaring headache that was quickly developing beneath his skull. His entire day spent half dressed out in the sun was all leading up to this show, and hearing their new songs, and being twenty feet away from his only teenage heartthrob and coming of age inspiration. It had been nearly a decade since he saw them perform live, and this was something he was genuinely looking forward to.

Louis shook his head and cringed inward at his disappointment.

“Well who’s replacing them, then? They were the headliners.”

“I dunno,” Nick said with a fleeting hand movement. “Some bloke named Harry Styles.”

or Louis ends his summer with a festival and a man who is almost too good to be true.