#cant wait to see like a dozen bands there next year

[semiotomatics]

couldnt sleep so now im buying concert tickets lol

[corymulpepper]

Cory Mulpepper Intro

☆ CORY MULPEPPER —

BASICS

★ BIRTH DATE / 13 August, 1960  ★ BLOOD STATUS / Half-blood ★ PRONOUNS & IDENTITY / she/her; cis female ★ FACECLAIM / Sophie Simnett

ACADEMICS & ROOMING

★ PRIMARY SCHOOL / Cork Wizarding School, class of 1978 ★ ACADEMIC PURSUITS / Natural sciences degree, Potions cohort ★ HOUSE & YEAR / Hufflepuff, second year

POINTS OF INTEREST

★ It had been established in 1106 and not much had changed in ways of Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary except for its staff throughout the years. It stayed within the family and eventually reached the hands of Nikolas Mulpepper, an English botanist and potioneer, in the year of 1949. Outraged by the fellow apothecaries that littered the wizarding world, Nikolas condemned them all for their greed and their use of harmful practices. Since then, Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary has been the most affordable apothecary to shop, with constant deals on cleaning solutions and performative draughts. And it’s no secret Nikolas is one to barter if a patron cannot afford the remedies they so dearly need. The shop has almost gone bankrupt multiple times and while Nikolas may pay the ultimate price by having to shut down his family’s century old shop, he would never go back on his ways. He’s always been loyal to the customer and have taught his two daughters the very same. It should come as no surprise that they’ve made a formal announcement -- that they do not approve of Selwyn’s squib vaccine.

★ Lydia, Nikolas’ wife, was born a squib. It positively broke his heart when the love of his life was unable to see her twin daughters start showing signs of magic themselves. But as Lydia had had a difficult upbringing because of her status in the wizarding world, Nikolas was just happy she’d finally found her peace. He told nothing but wonderful tales of his beautiful wife as bedtime stories to their daughters, who looked more and more like Lydia as the days passed by.

★ Born only minutes apart, it was safe to say the girls were inseparable from day one. This never, not once, got in the way of their individuality. Where one was brushing their teeth, the other one was using her toothbrush on the family dog’s teeth. Where one was doing arts and crafts, the other was using their scissors to give herself a new haircut. Two different sides of the same coin, essentially. They really became individuals upon attending Cork Wizardy College. They still shared a room, which wasn’t so different, until they began meeting friends of their own and attending different social gatherings. One would go to group palm readings, while the other went for live music shows. Even as time passed and distance began leaving its toll, the girls would still get together once a week with their favorite sweets and catch up on what boys or girls they were kissing.

★ Cory, the loud mouth she could be, was not placed into Gryffindor upon arriving at Hogwarts. But her quieter sister, Colleen, was, while she was sorted into Hufflepuff. Cory carried a chip on her shoulder about that one for a long time coming, wanting to be sorted where their father had gone. Where she’d idolized half her life. But no, Colleen got in where Cory hadn’t. Their weekly meetings were soon diminished, Cory saying she was too busy with the workload to catch up on any gossip. The most they spoke now were holidays back at home, where they put on a show for their father. To be perfectly clear, this wasn’t something Colleen had ever wanted, but for most of her life just like in birth, she followed Cory, Cory’s wants, Cory’s needs. They came first.

★ Cory usually spends her time half-assing a dozen things; painting, riding her skateboard, her school work in potions. But when it came to quidditch, she put in 110%. But as much as she put into the game, Cory rarely saw positive results coming back. In Primary, she’d gotten ejected from two games in row, which ultimately got her kicked off the team. She’d been too aggressive (and broken more bones than anyone) and needed to turn a new leaf, but when she had, upon joining Hufflepuff’s team, her efforts once again went unnoticed. This time she was denied from a summer quidditch camp. It seemed no matter what route she rode, she never chose the right one at the right time. It didn’t help that she was playing with and against peers that simply outshined her on the field. Dawn Withey was going to be the talk of Hogwarts when she landed herself on a fancy, popular, professional quidditch team, while Cory just barely scratched the surface. Her cynicism didn’t stop her from trying, though. With her third year coming up and a possible captainship, more is on the line than ever.

★ Thankfully, growing up, the girls never had to rely on looking for summer jobs. Their pops let them open and close the store on weekends for extra money. Cory was sure she could’ve gotten extra school credit towards her potions work for working in an apothecary. She’d have to pull that card if her grades ever dropped, she decided. One afternoon, the shop was buzzing with Christmas crowds, and the next second everybody was fleeing the scene. The Menagerie next door had apparently caught fire, smoke now billowing over into Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary. Now, Cory couldn’t see much of what was happening once smoke grew thicker, but she knew a man had entered the shop. The man turned his wand on Cory, throwing Cory aside and knocking her right out until black was all she saw. When she awoke, alone in the shop, she knew that he had escaped with something in the commotion of it all. Cory had planned on going through inventory herself, but an item as rare as this, Mr. Mulpepper knew it was gone the second he returned to his shop. He immediately owled the DMLE. Cory’s yet to come forward with her statement of that afternoon, hardly believing anything truly happened as it all happened so quickly. The nightmares about it haven’t stopped.

TRAITS

✓ challenging; individualistic; responsive  ✗ critical; self-conscious; reactive

extra shit

cory is on hufflepuff’s quidditch team, as a seeker! this is the one thing she never slacks off with and is always on time for. and im sure gives people a hard time if they’re not picking up the slack dlsfjasjf and it’s like SHUT UP CORY, YOU’RE NOT THE CAPTAIN. so any hufflepuff team connects hmu.

has a twiiin name colleen. cory is the “older” one. colleen’s gonna be an open bio if anyone has an itch 2 get silly wit me 

is Dramatic af

is not totally full of hufflepuff pride and maybe gets points taken away every so often? oops. 19 years old and still actin’ up.

her about page is here 

listens to a LOT of music. a lot of underground bands that people havent heard of allll the waaay to the huge names like rolling stones and the who. she’s never been to an actual, huge concert venue with a big band headlining. she’s only seen smaller shows here and there. despite that, doesnt own a whole lot of vinyl. cuz she really prefers the live experience better.

she would love a skateboard riding buddy for when the weather’s nicer!! and she paints only landscapes and oceans cuz she sucks at pretty much everything besides that. and always knows where the best party is happening. probably cant wait to have a low street house next year to throw her own parties.

opinionated for the fact that she just loves to hear herself talking

hmu for any relationships!! friendships, she is prone to enemies with her big mouth, she is bisexual AF so anything there, just anythaaaang <3

hmu for threads! it’s kinda a busy time so i get that <3 if not let’s plan stuff for when they get back to school :’ ) ty xoxo

[loudest-subtext-in-tv]

A Study in Fate teaser

Here’s the first 2200 words of a novel-length fanfic that I’ll finish sometime this year. It’s a WiP on an atypical schedule: At a later date I’ll release the rest of the first chapter, but then I’ll release everything else all at once.

Some authors don’t like if you hassle them to hurry up, but I may find it motivating. I’m going to attempt to get better at answering my asks/comments so feel free to ask me things about this fic, but keep in mind there’s a lot of things I won’t answer. Please be aware that no one cares if you don’t like first person perspective.

Though a big aspect of this story is about how to manage depression, it starts in a relatively dark place and weaves in and out of it. If you can’t handle unresolved distant thoughts of suicide right now, maybe wait until the entire story is posted.

Finally, I am doing okay financially right now, but two of my fandom friends are not. If you’ve ever wanted to give me money, I now have a Patreon. Anything you give me will help me help them.

Description: After the events of The Empty Hearse, Sherlock struggles to figure out who he is now that John no longer seems willing to play a prominent role in his life. As his mind runs in circles trying to parse their relationship and determine who threw John in the bonfire, his world is shattered by an enigmatic visitor: himself, bearing bad news from the future.

Series 3 time travel remix; series 4 compatible.

Tags and warnings: first person present, agonizing slow burn, explicit but romantic, depression, suicidal ideation, NOT FLUFF, self-actualization

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

Chapter One - The Curtain Rises

One can’t get far without an organizing principle. Every man needs one drive to which all others are subordinate, a touchstone that seizes him with purpose.

I had one once.

Now I have chips.

Dreadful organizing principle, chips: once you’ve got them, there’s nothing propelling you forward anymore. Have enough of them and you hardly want to move at all. God. I was in the best shape of my life, body and mind, and now I’m turning into Mycroft.

Except Mycroft has already transcended these struggles — or so he claims. Yet again, I’m lagging behind on a path I never wanted to follow. Splendid.

Any moment Mrs Hudson will come out and start chattering away about you. That will set me back the rest of the day, yet I won’t ascend the stairs. Does no part of my mind demand control of my brain stem? I’m meant to be some kind of genius: Any visionary corner of my psyche eager to make something of me? No takers?

No. Life is now nothing more but the wandering of here to there. And thoughts like that are why everyone thinks I’m a baby, so for god’s sake stop.

I am all too stopped.

Depression is a dowsing rod: shows you where to dig. So: Why do I halt here, at the bottom of the stairs? Why can’t I face the only place I’ve ever belonged?

It’s not merely that you don’t live here anymore. Not quite. That would be too easy.

Where are you wandering now, John? You got off work an hour ago. No one's called to alert me you've been kidnapped, so there's one thing I didn't miss today.

Still figuring that out, darling. Off my game. Maybe was never on it. Against my better judgment I let romance rot my mind, and you're the one who's suffered most. But I've recovered from less noble chemical weaknesses than your company. Against all odds I still draw breath. If I make myself do nothing else, I will turn this around. I'll prove you can rely on me.

Any threatening emails? You don't just attempt to incinerate a man and move on. For god's sake, give me something.

Oh. A text. Not a threat; a video from the homeless network. Must have been delayed whilst I was on the tube.

There you are, alive and unwell, and here responds my heart but it's nothing. Mere streets away from me, and nowhere near her flat. Why do you do this, John? Is your phone broken? We could just talk about this. Give me another chance and I swear I won't come on so strong. I was too presumptuous when we last spoke weeks ago. I broke your heart, I'm monstrous; you're no longer fond. I get it.

You're no longer fond, but you're in need of a hit. Which is curious, you realize. You understand how a man would get the impression... But no. I won't presume. Life is boring and I'm dangerous and bless you, you need a hit. Just come get one. I'll pretend I'm managing, I'll find a way to switch on that whole persona for you and you can do your hero worship thing. I won't act desperate.

Just show up, and I will respect your wishes.

Do anything but pensively stop on the sidewalk in front of shops you have no intention of entering. It just screams, I'm distracted! Kidnap me! It's been an age and I know you despise me, but if you keep doing this I'm going to have to conduct surprise drills again.

Maybe you're trying to get kidnapped. I wouldn't put it past you. Maybe it would be charity to send a car around for you to blithely climb into. Do you even think about how that would make Mary feel, John?

Of course, it's me you're thinking about right now. The tension in your posture, the unconscious clenching of your hand, the conflict evident on your face even from this distance: definitely me.

You know, I wasn't the only one who presumed. The papers presumed, the entire British populace presumed, even your sister presumed and surely she'd -- No matter. You've made yourself clear. Just: spare a thought for "the best thing that's ever happened" to you. I've no talent for consoling women on my best days, and I'd hate to see how I'd fare in a worse state than her.

No, I don't know that. I don't know that I love you more than she does. She's never broken your heart.

Oh. Wait, why...? For god's sake, Pilar, why would you approach him? He'll notice.

Well. Can't complain about seeing your eyes more clearly. Not good for my recovery. And there, yes, you've noticed. Paranoia in full swing, hackles raised, and a step forward. 'Can I help you?' in your usual tone that fashions a threat from etiquette.

Not good for my recovery, no. The things you do to my blood, John.

'Got a pound?'

'For someone recording me?' You scoff, narrow your eyes. 'Are you...?'

'Say, aren't you John Watson?' Oh, clever girl. Look at him, pretending he's not pleased to be recognized.

Yet nothing is ever simple with you, John.

'Yeah.' You're either too smart or too suspicious for your own good. (Freud would presume. I'm only saying.) 'Did he...?' You look directly at the camera; at me.

Come on! You assume it’s me? When roaming bands of criminals have set you aflame? Oh here we go, that spark in your eye -- you're going all in:

'Did you put her up to this?'

Oh well.

'Who? What makes you say that, sir?'

'Uh, well he does it all the time.' I don't. 'You know what? Just send it to him.'

'Not sure what you mean, sir.'

'Oh,' you laugh, 'you're not sure what I mean. Stop bloody recording me.'

And that's the end of that.

So. Guess you won't be coming over this week either. Or will you? Are you angry enough to confront me? It's not stalking when it's for your own protection -- just ask my brother, John. God knows he could use the conversation.

I’ve got to find more discreet operatives.

> Next time don't be so obvious.

When did she send this? Ten minutes ago. No, if you were going to come over, you would have arrived by now.

I suppose you’ve already said everything you have to say. But not even a text for stalking, John? I thought we had a connection.

Or we did. Before Moriarty won.

Not your fault. All mine. I underestimated him, failed to foresee the lengths to which he'd go for his insane plan. Didn't realize how many pieces he'd put on the board. Stupid.

A ping:

i thought youd like it? before you whinged you cant hardly see him

It was only supposed to be months, John. Then dozens of pulled threads later and you'd already gone and shacked up with a woman! That's what I get for being thorough.

And not even thorough enough. But if I wasn't thorough enough then neither was MI6, John. If Moriarty still had operatives in London, that's on Mycroft. And me. But definitely on Mycroft.

I don't know. Hate not knowing.

Are we really never going to talk about this? I took down an international crime syndicate for you, and you broke up with me on your blog?

No, no -- sorry. I take full responsibility.

This is ridiculous. I don't know why anyone comes to me to solve their problems. I can't even make it up the stairs.

Ah.

That's it, isn't it? I don’t live up there anymore, either.

Yes. Everyone says you can find Sherlock Holmes just up those stairs, back from the dead and cleverer than ever! Like most things everyone says, it’s not true. I search for him in these rooms daily, and all the evidence points to this: Sherlock Holmes was a character created by John Watson. An exciting story. A fairy tale. (Dare I say a fantasy?)

People will believe anything you tell them, John, and they did. You were so sure I was a hero that even I came to believe it in the end. Now they only keep believing it because I lied. I was never steps ahead, never as infallible as you made me out to be -- and now that you've quit writing me I'll never be anyone at all.

But I'm doing it again. Getting histrionic. I'm not the first nobody to have his heart broken. They all get on with life.

Well: usually. Technically speaking, the most invested ones turn to murder or suicide. On the upside, murder is still in the cards: Assuming I can pull it together long enough to hunt down the appropriate parties, they are murderers and it would be doing the world a favor to murder them right back. In the course of any such investigation there will tend to arise situations in which I would have no choice but to murder them -- or, fortune willing, sacrifice myself so that you may live. Or both! Now that would be a power play: cleanse the board of evil, preserve the king. The ideal way to die may yet fall into my lap.

It's nice to have things to look forward to.

But say it doesn't pan out. Given my recent track record it would be foolish to place undue faith in my forecasting abilities, and after all, I don't know for certain this has anything to do with Moriarty's network. He pulled so many rugs out from under me I'm always half expecting yet another rug. I may grow as paranoid as you, John, with him skulking about in my head. For all I know everyone involved was in Moran's network, and I'm chasing after people who are already in custody. Maybe there's no grand end, no power plays, no relief.

That leaves suicide.

I'm not saying I will, John. I refuse to break your heart again. And it would be no way to honor the lengths to which you've gone to preserve my life. They're mere thoughts. They come and go -- always have, and I always haven't. I'm not going to do it, and if I am, I can always do it later.

But no appealing alternative has revealed itself. Only the obvious path for the invested: live like everyone else, and finally sever myself from aspiring to anything meaningful or exciting. Growing up, they call it.

Freud called it repression, so let's hold off on drastic measures. I made this life work before and I can make it work again.

Of course, that was easy for Freud to say: Being invested in life isn't an exercise in masochism when you have a lifelong companion. Not to be maudlin, John, but I wasn't making it work until you came along. Not truly. You were the gear that made it all click. I couldn't become Sherlock Holmes until you facilitated it.

It felt like the strength you granted me persisted during our years apart, but it's no surprise I drifted off course the moment you weren't at my side. That's not superstitious, John, that’s just a cold fact. You would have caught the little things I didn't. You would have kept my ego in check.

But what's done is done. I'll muster some strength for you. Reinvent myself again. Reorder my mind, keep myself off the needle and the pavement until I tie up these loose ends. Then... who knows.

Maybe someone else will come along.

Well. Feels good to laugh.

I’ve got to get on with it. Life may be a flight of uncarpeted stairs, but I'm sick of being down here.

'Going out, dear? John didn't call, did he?'

Will I always be this damned slow?

I sigh loudly, not that it will make any difference. 'No, and no.' You scowl like you do when I talk about him. 'Just getting in.'

You frown. 'But we were just talking.'

My heart leaps. 'You and John?'

'No, silly.' My heart falls. You tilt your head; smile. 'You and me.'

'You were talking. I was out.'

You shake your head and laugh, a cheery, infuriating tinkle. 'You had quite a lot to--'

'Mrs Hudson.' For god's sake, do not go senile on me. Not one more straw.

'Is it drugs, dear?' Terrible, hushed pity. Everyone always leaps straight to drugs! 'Oh don't get angry, I know all the signs! The nerve of him, putting you in this state. I'd say a few things to him, if only he'd come around once in a--'

Anything has got to be better than this.

'Project much?' The stairs are fine two at a time.

'I need those for my hip!’

'Adjust your dose! You're clearly...’ What?

What in the world?

'That would explain so much,' he says, and the room tilts.

Through the door. There I am. There he is.

Sherlock Holmes.

End notes:

In The Lying Detective, Sherlock tells Faith that chips are “the only perk” of being suicidal. In The Empty Hearse, he was eating chips when Mary told him John had been kidnapped.

John’s most recent blog entry before this story takes place is The Empty Hearse. It’s a mindfuck minefield for poor Sherlock, but we’ll get into that more soon. For now, know it contains this doozy: “Oh, and in other news, I’ve got engaged. But, it’s not something I’m really going to talk about much here. I want to keep some things private. I will say, though, she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Sorry, Sherlock :)”

I borrowed the name Pilar from Sherlock Holmes and the Baker Street Irregulars: The Fall of the Amazing Zalindas, a novel by Tracy Mack and Michael Citrin. I’ve never read it, mind, it just seems like it wouldn’t be the sort of thing Sherlock would assign to Wiggins, and Wiggins would never be so sloppy.

Sherlock is obsessed with Freud. One Freud reference in The Abominable Bride, which was constructed entirely from Sherlock’s drugged out brain, came from Mycroft, who asked John if he was aware of theories of paranoia. Freud believed paranoid people were closeted homosexuals, heavily insinuating that Sherlock believes John is a closeted homosexual. Freud meta to come later; he’s very important.

Freud was with his wife for 57 years.

“Life is a flight of uncarpeted stairs” is from the poem “Spring” by the early 20th century queer poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. She ended up dying of a heart attack that made her fall down the stairs, which is itself poetic. Though she was a woman, I think it’s realistic Sherlock would know about her: the Casebook notes that Sherlock reads the agony aunt columns in women’s magazines because they contain all of life and are pertinent to his line of work, and in the same spirit I’ve made him familiar with all old famous love letters, for which she’s renowned. We also know Sherlock is familiar with Shakespeare and moved enough to remember entire soliloquies, so there’s no way Sherlock could read “Spring” and not retain some of it — especially as John and Mary had been aiming for a spring wedding, and the poem references April, which is just wrapping up as the fic begins.

[curiosity-killed]

masks

@aurumdalseni​ I’m so sorry for how long this took, but I had to talk myself out of making it a full-fledged long fic D:

send me a ship and a number and I’ll write a short fic

34. meeting at a masquerade ball au

Word Count: 3296

Swans and swallows and hawks twirl past, their wings made of skirts and tailcoats rather than feathers. A few of the most eccentric guests have entire nests woven into their hair, tiny little eggs perched gem-like among the branches. "We'll call it 'Flights of Fancy,'" Lance had declared, sprawled on his back on the chaise. "People will love it." Shiro had raised a dubious eyebrow at the time, but now, it seemed Lance's judgment had proven keen. The guests fill the hall to bursting, a flock of fine absurdity. Underneath his own mask, he itches with discomfort. Despite the extravagance of so many other masks, it's hard not to feel ridiculous with half a crow's wing across his face. "Relax," Allura chides. "You look dashing."

There's a teasing lilt to her tone that makes him roll his eyes. He'd elbow her for that, but they're not in the field right now, and they ought to pretend at propriety. For the princess to be lingering with her royal guard instead of dancing is already enough to have some older nobles' noses twitching.

"That's easy for you to say when you look regal even in chainmail," he retorts. She laughs and preens, just a little. The dress she's wearing is a startling white that nearly matches the starshine color of her hair and makes her dark skin that much more radiant. It sweeps down in featherlike ripples that make him think equally of a swan as of a white-capped ocean. Allura has always worn beauty and ferocity equally well. "Go dance with someone," he grumbles good-naturedly. "The courtiers are starting to make a line." It wasn't wholly untrue: half a dozen young nobles were trying their best to hover unobtrusively in the hopes that they might get to ask the princess for a dance before the others. "Fine. But you have to at least dance once tonight," she says, "or I'll insist on pole-arm practice at dawn." She can't see his expression under the mask, but he still turns an unimpressed look her way. Of the two of them, he's far more likely to be up at sunrise anyway. More often than not, he knocks at her chamber doors to rouse her for morning drills. Now, she rolls her eyes and waves off his unspoken objection. "At least one dance!" she calls over her shoulder as she finally turns to the waiting partners. “One dance,” he mutters, turning back to the room at large. It shouldn’t feel so daunting. Once upon a time, back before the war, he would have spent the whole night dancing. He’s always had restless feet, a restless heart, ill-suited to sitting idle. Movement has been his most constant state, and what better way to move than to music, among friends? Now, though, his skin starts crawling when his back faces the doors, and partners shy away from the metal of his hand. It will be good for him. Probably. One isn’t so overwhelming, after all, even if it takes a few rejections first. Failure stings less with familiarity. Someone has said that before – or something like it, anyway. “Are you looking for someone in particular?” The low voice, too close, makes him whip around, hand reaching for a sword that isn’t at his hip. It’s laid out on his dresser in his rooms because arms are forbidden at balls and social functions. Because this is court, not a battlefield, and it isn’t some enemy soldier who’s snuck up on him but a tall, trim man who’s now stepped back with his hands raised. Great job, Takashi. Scaring the man off before he even had a choice in the matter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man says, and Shiro’s mouth closes, his own apology aborted. “I didn’t think about the noise covering my steps.” “No, that’s alright,” Shiro says. “I was caught up in my thoughts.” The man cants his head as if in understanding. “To answer your question, though, no, I’m not looking for anyone in particular,” Shiro continues. He doesn’t explain the rest, that he was trying to decide who would be most likely to dance with him and not ask too many questions or read too much into it. The thought alone makes heat crawl up the back of his neck. “Well, that is a relief,” the man admits. Shiro tilts his head in question, and the man obliges. “I was hoping to ask you for a dance.” There’s a beat of silence as they look at each other, until finally, it sinks in and Shiro realizes he’s actually asking. “Oh! Yes, thank you,” he says. “Would you prefer to lead or follow?” the man asks, one slender hand extended. “I’m fine with either,” Shiro says, settling his hand in the man’s upturned palm, “but I can follow this time.” The room is filled to bursting, and the only spot they can find is along the side, near enough they have to stay close on turns or risk hitting the wall. Up close like this, Shiro is surprised at how small he feels next to the man. He’s always been on the tall end of average, but now, the man has to curve a little to meet his gaze. His mask is of a strange bird: purple and white feathers fan over his face in a pattern Shiro doesn’t recognize. “It’s a medicine bird,” the man explains. “My friend’s idea of a joke.” “You’re a doctor, then?” Shiro asks. The man leads him in a turn so that their arms meet at the wrist as they promenade. Around the room, all the couples are in the same posture. “I am,” affirms the man. “I was a field medic, but I’ve been more inclined to research recently.” A field medic here in the princess’s court? Even with the open doors of Allura’s court, he must have friends of some high rank. “And what brings a doctor to a masquerade?” Shiro asks. “Business,” the man says, and his tone makes Shiro suppress a smile of commiseration. “My commander and I have a meeting with the princess in the morning.” Behind his mask, Shiro raises his eyebrows. As captain of the princess’ guard, he knows her daily schedule and the meetings she has planned. “You’re Galra, then,” he says. The man pauses, halfway through bringing Shiro back into closed position. They are one of the only points of stillness in the sea of dancers. “I am,” he says, “but I swear we are on Altea’s side and not that of the emperor.” Shiro nods with a little hum of assent. Adrenaline still thrums under his skin at the proximity of the Galra, half-obfuscated memories screaming for him to fight or flee. He suppresses them with familiar ease, and not only because this isn’t the proper place for a scene. The man can’t know it, but Shiro was the one to convince Allura to meet with the Galra in the first place. He feels suddenly like some accidental spy, roped by circumstance into new reconnaissance. “And how are you finding Altea so far?” he asks. “A delight,” the man answers. “It is a beautiful country and the people quite welcoming. I wish I could spend longer here; there’s so much we won’t be able to see.” Shiro smiles, pleased by the sincerity of the assessment. Though he isn’t from Altea originally, it’s become his home over the past several years. He takes pride in others’ wonder at it. “How long are you staying?” he asks. The song is nearly over, but Shiro isn’t quite ready to let go. He’s intrigued by this Galran doctor-cum-scientist, by his honest words and sure hands. The man pauses to glance at the musicians before turning to Shiro. There’s a little hesitation before he speaks. “Would you care for one dance more? Since the last was only half the song,” he suggests. “It’s only fair,” Shiro answers. The man relaxes under Shiro’s hand, and a little smile curls up his lips. They pause while the band changes to the new song. “We’re staying for a week,” he answers in the lull. “Oh, then you have plenty of time to see the city at least,” Shiro says. “Even the woods around it, perhaps. The natural wonders here are nearly magical.” “Nearly?” asks the man as they begin again, dubious. Shiro laughs as he’s spun around himself. So he’s heard the stories. “Well, maybe more than ‘nearly’,” he admits. “Still, it’s beautiful, and safe as long as you have a guide.” The man breathes out a laugh and settles his hand back on Shiro’s hip. Heat seeps from his broad palm and through Shiro’s tabard, but it’s settling, grounding. The weight of his hand keeps Shiro close without being confining. “Then I’ll have to find a guide,” the man says. His voice is gentle and a little amused. It rumbles through his chest in a way that Shiro can almost feel. “And you?” the man asks. “You don’t have the accent of an Altean.” “No,” Shiro admits, “I’m from Terra – a small country to the north.” Most people at court hadn’t heard of it except through the paladins, and there were those in the Alliance who grumbled about all the paladins coming from such a small, primitive nation. He could understand the frustration but didn’t let it bother him much. They had no say over who the lions chose and if, someday, Black chose a new paladin, he would not object. Well, not too much. There was some room for fallibility with semi-sentient legendary weapons. “I’ve heard of it,” the man says. “How did you come to the court, then?” “Business,” Shiro replies, a little teasing. It earns him a small smile, and he shakes his head. “No, it was more luck than anything else. My party and I befriended an Altean party on the road, and the rest is history.” It’s broadly true, even if he’s omitting key details such as the Altean party being the lost princess and her spymaster and the friendship being born of a mutual need for support against a Galra attack. If the man had paid any attention to the recent history of Altea, and to be at court he must, then too many details would be a dead giveaway for Shiro’s identity. As much as he doesn’t feel inclined to lie to the man, he’s enjoying this brief foray in anonymity. “Some would call that fate,” the man remarks. Fate – or a very stubborn pride of lions. Shiro gives a small smile and lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “Some would call all paths fate,” he says. “I like to think we have a little say in it.” He’s always hated the idea of destiny, that some omnipotent force determines every facet of their lives. There’s too much cruelty in the world, too much hate and pain, for him to believe that it’s the way it’s meant to be. If only for the sake of his own belief in their cause, he needs to believe that they can change it. “I’ve never been a believer in destiny myself,” the man admits. Shiro straightens, a little surprised and pleased by the answer. Even without being able to see his face, the man seems to pick up on the shift in his attention. “It has always seemed…complacent,” the man continues. “As if the world is meant to be this way just because it has been this way.” There’s a vehemence to his voice that’s barely contained, a passion not often seen in the artifice of court. “It sounds like this isn’t the first time you’ve considered this,” Shiro remarks, gently teasing. The man’s sure steps stutter a little, as if abashed. His amber eyes widen, framed by the purple feathers of his mask. “I – well, I suppose I have given it some thought,” he admits. He sounds a little embarrassed, as if he hadn’t realized how sure his earlier words had sounded. Shiro smiles, amused and a little endeared despite himself. “Maybe you should add ‘philosopher’ to doctor and researcher,” he says. And rebel. The Galra had been vague when describing themselves, only saying they were a society dedicating to resisting Zarkon’s rule. They’d refused to give a name or any example of how, exactly, they resisted, and Allura had been sure it was a trap. Shiro had argued in their favor based only on a gut feeling, wishful thinking more than hard evidence. After speaking with this man, Shiro’s more sure of that choice. He speaks like someone who truly believes in their cause. More than that, he’s surprised by how much he wants to find out more., wants to know the man without masks or the court between them. It’s been a long time since he felt such an immediate magnetism to someone – not since Adam, before Kerberos was even a dream. “Perhaps when I’ve retired,” the man concedes. “Maybe by then there will be some university vacancy.” “Sounds a little more comfortable than being a field medic,” Shiro remarks. The man laughs, low and rumbling, and doesn’t refute it. A little pleased with himself, Shiro suppresses a smile. The musicians begin their denouement, too soon by far. It isn’t really proper to stay with the man all night, and Shiro hates to trap him. For his part, the man seems equally loath to separate. “I guess I should let you go,” the man says. The last note sounds, but their hands remain together. “I don’t want to keep you,” Shiro says, reluctantly. The man gives a little smile and polite nod. “Then, thank you for the dances,” he says. “It has been a great pleasure.” “The pleasure is mine,” Shiro answers. “Perhaps we’ll run into each other while you’re still in Altea – without the masks.” He says it in a moment of rare bravery and is rewarded by a genuine smile from the man. “That would be a true pleasure,” he answers. The rest of the masquerade passes rapidly, and though Shiro finds himself with more partners than he expects, he only sees the man once more. He’s standing with another man, shorter but broader, and bent so as to hear the other above the noise of the crowd. He catches Shiro’s eye and, though it’s difficult to see from this distance, Shiro thinks he spies a small smile. Shiro has to suppress his own as he turns back to his new partner. After that brief moment, he doesn’t see the man again. A feeling of contentment and loss unfolds in his chest, bittersweet like the last petals of a rare and beautiful flower. He goes to bed with the consoling thought that at least he has pleasant memories of a lovely night. In the morning, he wakes with the sun and starts his exercises and routine. The first hours of the day are always his alone, with the rest of the palace yet asleep. He walks along the parapets and pauses to stretch under the young sun. After his patrol and breakfast and a meeting with some of the guard, he heads up to accompany Allura to her next meeting. She’s currently in the tallest of the towers, and the view through the windows becomes more incredible with each floor he passes. The great forest around the palace fills nearly his whole view, a sea of green. Birds flit through the ancient trees, bright flashes of color in the dappled light. The doors to this room are an ivory wood carved with an intricate depiction of the legend of the white lion, and careful lines of blue paint accentuate the quintessence around the deity. He raises his hand and knocks out his standard rhythm – one long, two quick, two steady – and waits only a moment before Allura calls for him to enter. He pushes open the doors with ease and settles in parade rest just inside. They’ll be leaving shortly, or Allura wouldn’t have had him join them. “I look forward to speaking with you further over the week, Kolivan,” Allura is saying. “It seems your Blades could offer significant aid to the Alliance’s efforts.” Kolivan nods, his square face set in a stern expression. There are lines on his face as if from frequent scowling, and the rust-red tattoo across his forehead is disconcertingly near the color of blood. A closer look, though, shows little smile lines by his eyes, too, and Shiro’s impression improves. The other man is tall and slender, with just as serious an expression though his face is unlined by wrinkles. He holds himself with the kind of composed stillness of a dancer or soldier – someone used to making intentional choices with their movement and energy. Broad shoulders taper into a strong waist. If it were to come to a fight, Shiro’s not sure he and Allura could take them easily. “May it be a worthy endeavor to find our common ground,” Kolivan says. Allura gives a slight nod before turning to include Shiro in their group. Kolivan and the other man follow the gesture as if they’ve finally been given permission to acknowledge him. “This is Takashi Shirogane, the Black Paladin of Voltron,” Allura says. Shiro nods in greeting. Were they some other royal or noble, he’d be expected to bow, but right now, he’s Allura’s show of force. In diplomatic negotiations like these, it isn’t proper for the princess to bring out her armor and staff, but even a reminder of Voltron provides a certain kind of force to her arguments.   “It is an honor, Paladin,” Kolivan greets. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Shiro says, even if he isn’t meeting them in any real sense. In his periphery, the other man straightens just enough to make the back of Shiro’s neck prickle. He hasn’t heard anyone come up behind him nor any indication of an intrusion. Black would let him know if there something had happened elsewhere in the castle – surely. The man’s new attentiveness doesn’t lead to immediate action, though. Instead, he simply seems to watch Shiro a little more closely, his weight more forward on the balls of his feet as if in anticipation. "You'll have to pardon me - I have another meeting to attend - but we are headed in the same direction," Allura says.

It's a good sign. If the meeting had gone poorly, she would've had a guard escort them while she took a back route to her next meeting. They fall in together with Kolivan and Allura in front and Shiro in step with the other man. Allura and Kolivan pick up some earlier conversation almost immediately, and Shiro has to hide a smile. A successful meeting indeed. "I did not realize I danced with such a decorated partner," the man says, and Shiro freezes. He stops short and turns to the man to find a little, hopeful smile curling up his lips. Shiro's eyes widen before he laughs, delighted. The man's expression eases into a full smile. Now that his face isn't hidden by a mask, Shiro can see the way his smile lights his whole face, turns into gentle crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It's like the lighting of a candle, a gentle illumination. "We did say we wanted to meet without masks," Shiro laughs. “Yes, though I didn’t hope it would be so soon,” the man affirms, still smiling. He extends his hand. “My name is Ulaz.” Shiro accepts it, his own nearly small in Ulaz’s broad palm in long fingers. “Shiro,” he says, unnecessarily. He pauses, struck by an idea. “You know, you were looking for a guide for the forest. I might just know of one.” Ulaz’s smile curves up at the invitation, and Shiro feels something like hope unfold in his chest. There might be something here worth investigating after all.

[nightcoremoon]

I think part of the reason why I hate horror movies is because of the overreliance on jumpscares and shock value and BWAH SUDDEN LOUD NOISES rather than on atmosphere, believability, tension, fear.

here's a list of horror movies from google and the reasons why I hate them, or why I love them, or that they're not actually horror movies.

A quiet place: haven't seen it yet but it's a thriller more so than a horror. thrillers can be scary though but then again so can comedies. and romances. 50 shades is definitely scary: it is psychological abuse after all.

Halloween: slasher film, automatically boring and shit. I'm including the entirety of the franchise here, by the way, and I'm also gonna be including Friday the 13th, nightmare on elm street, etc. They're all the same brand of sensationalist garbage. maybe the very first in each series could be redeemable but the mass volume of shitty and terrible CGI gorefests have ruined them forever. "oh no the scary unkillable monster is coming after us and he's gonna kill us in overly violent ways" 💩

Hereditary: I don't even give a shit it looks trite EDIT maybe it's okay but I don't give enough of a shit to bother to ~give it a chance~ because hey. that's what fucking horror games are for.

Insidious: boring, not scary, 0/10

Get Out: haven't watched yet but will because it's a cinematic masterpiece that defies genre conventions

Bird Box: IM SO FUCKING SICK OF HEARING ABOUT FUCKING BIRD BOX SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT BIRD BOX HOLY SHIT. It's just the goddamn happening by shyamagofuckyourself and it's an excuse to profit off of sensationalist suicide. oohh so spooky. eat my ass, boggart

It: too much bad cgi makes it a comedy. plus a bunch of kids say fuck a lot. good movie that's technically horror I guess but is it scary? nah.

Suspiria: I've never heard of this movie

Annihilation: same

Split: M NIGHT SHYAMALAN IS A SHITTY FILMMAKER and also it's ableist as fuck so

Mandy: google you suck none of these movies have any mainstream appeal

The Conjuring: 💩💩💩

Hush: ??? you know what fuck it I'm skipping the ones that don't matter

The Vvitch: 🙄 my mom's a witch, my best friend's a witch, I'm a witch. hey yeah maybe let's not buy into christian colonialism please? scary witches are boring as shit. gimme something actually scary. like Catholics.

The Nun: wait shit not like that! and by that I mean BORING AS HELL aside from the jumpscares. which are shit

The Babadook: clearly an LGBT movie, not horror

Cabin in the Woods: a parody and an excellent one at that. at least the gore is in homage, or hilariously over the top

Sinister: the fucking epitome of shitty jumpscares and shock value and lack of atmosphere and bad acting and bad plot and jesus fucking christ this is one of the worst and most boring movies I've ever had the misfortune to see DONT WASTE YOUR GODDAMN TIME

Saw: it's actually a thriller with Cary Elwes, Danny Glover, Michael Emerson, and Tobin Bell. it's a campy cheesy low budget true to form horror film with adequate writing, good acting, AMAZING MUSIC BY CHARLIE CLOSER, and isn't over the top with gore considering it's all practical effects. top fucking notch but spawned a dozen terrible sequels.

Shaun of the Dead: it's a touching and heartfelt romantic comedy... with zombies, EXCELLENT CINEMATOGRAPHY, excellent acting, and sad parts that will rip your fucking heart out, stomp on it, and grind it to dust. literally one of the best movies ever made of all time, eat shit tarantino.

The Ring: eh, the original Japanese was better (Japanese horror is its own genre and not a part of this criticism, I actually really like original Japanese horror unfucked up by american audiences as long as it doesn't just gratuitously glorify suicide as Japan does), but this was still a really good mystery thriller with some really cool effects, and is the only movie that has ever actually scared me for real. even now I hate that there's a tv with a vcr right at the foot of my bed.

The Sixth Sense: shyamalan made a couple of good movies. this was one of them. but it wasn't a horror movie and if you didn't know the twist IT WAS A FUCKING AMAZING ONE. like, goddamn empire strikes back levels of supreme and god tier plot twists. it went a little overboard on shock value but compared to the rest of the COMPLETE BULLSHIT on this list (AND IN HIS OWN MOVIES) it really could've gone way further.

The Descent: goddamn claustrophobia. too much horribly cgi'd gore and terrible decisions to be truly enjoyable though. would've been a much better movie without the mutants and the middle finger to physics throat stabbing and the JUST FUCKING KICK IT YOU GODDAMN IDIOT and oh yeah the subtle misogyny. the first half was good tho

28 days later: shitty remake of a merely ok movie EDIT I was thinking of 28 weeks later, 28 days was actually okay I guess

Scream: did not age well but it's okay for being meta, despite the fucking torture porn of drew barrymore at the beginning. allowed for scary movie 1 though, so I'm glad it exists.

Paranormal Activity: PARANORMAL FUCKING ACTIVITY CAN EAT MY ASS, ITS SUCH A SUBLIME FAILURE OF EXECUTION. I WANTED IT TO BE GOOD BUT IT WASNT. oh well at least it inspired five nights at Freddy's. I'll go ahead and throw all shitty found footage movies under this one, including unfriended.

Blair Witch Project: a fucking pioneer of its time. a genre definer. truly scary. good movie. I'll go ahead and throw all good found footage movies under this one, including cloverfield.

The Shining: a thriller, not horror. but goddamn is it the scariest not horror movie ever made. Stephen king you magnificent bastard

Alien: goddamn fucking alien. science fiction masterpiece. director's a little creepy but eh, sigourney weaver kicks ass, and alien isolation is such a good game (despite its many flaws), and it's just so iconic in terms of sheer scope of concept. it's the same horror movie as anywhere else but in space, and I still can't fucking believe this was made in the 70s. this and Star Wars were FUCKING AMAZING, and the xenomorph? THATS ALL PRACTICAL EFFECTS BABEY. NO OVERRELIANCE ON CGI GUTS AND SHOCK VALUE HERE, ITS JUST PURE HORROR AT ITS FINEST. good movie. aliens was better. everything else... eeehhh...

The Thing: same as the descent but with men instead of women, and EVEN WORSE DECISION MAKING. IT IS UNBELIEVABLE JUST HOW GODDAMN STUPID EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM COULD POSSIBLY BE. and in the remake yeah the practical effects were mind blowingly fantastic and inspired dead space which I believe is one of the best horror games if not just best games or horror pieces of media if not just best pieces of media constructed. but the prequel? 🙄 no thanks

The exorcist: masterpiece of practical effects without an overreliance on jumpscares and gore

Jaws: it's Stephen fucking Spielberg in the 70s and one of the most influential horror films and just films in general

Hellraiser: okay I'll give all works by clive barker a pass here because goddamn is he a demented fucking genius if ever I saw one. if only Jericho was actually a good game, it could've been the next doom 3

Poltergeist: an actually good horror movie that depends on atmosphere and effects more so than jumpscares and gore? SIGN ME THE FUCK UP

Evil Dead: campy but misogynist. the sequel was a comedy so it's okay. the next sequel is also a comedy AND ARMY OF DARKNESS IS ONE OF THE BEST MOVIES EVER FUCKING MADE. FIGHT ME. and fuck the remake. sam raimi should've retired after spiderman 3. maybe even before that.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre: honestly not bad. it was actually freaky and believable. rednecks really are fucking scary with all their inbreeding and terrible music and hatred of black people. I refuse to acknowledge the original and the sequels.

Psycho: eh, hitchcock's worst is still better than most of the shit on this list.

The Wicker Man: OH GOD NOT THE BEES! AHHGUBLAHH MY EYES! AAAAAHHHHH!!! fucking excellent comedy. but it doesn't have any naked ladies in it like the original did. oh well, can't please everyone.

Night of the Living Dead: THOSE ZOMBIES ARE BULLSHIT. ZOMBIES CANT USE WEAPONS AND THEY SURE AS FUCK CANT TURN YOU INTO A ZOMBIE BY STABBING YOU WITH A TROWEL. THEY HAVE TO BITE YOU. FUCK YOU GEORGE ROMERO. Also, dawn of the dead was just sensationalist garbage. "They tore apart a real pig carcass tho so it looked like real intestines" what? the fuck??? who gives a shit????? I watch movies to escape from reality, dumbass. I don't beat off to chopped up human carcasses. If I want a zombie movie I want the walking dead sans the soap opera bullshit and the racism and then "no one is safe and everyone will die" boring mentality propagated by twd and got and other things I used to like but no longer care about (because why should I give a shit about it if everyone could die? I can already be sad enough about all the real people I know who die. enjoying the pain of the deaths of those important to us is a privilege the cishets have). the walking dead seasons 1&2 was pure horror and the very best kind. don't give me boring contrivances. "but sheena, night of the living dead was a trope definer! everything in it was original!" yeah, you know what else is original? *farting noise* George Romero is just rob zombie without a rock band. his best work was fucking call of duty. that's pathetic. "maybe you just don't like gore" HEY YEAH SURE I DONT WANNA SEE UBER REALISTIC INTESTINES AND ORGANS IF THEY ARENT PART OF A MEDICAL DEAL SO IM JUST A BIG DUMB HATER. I'm the one in the wrong. fuck me, right?

Don't Breathe: A FUCKING TURKEY BASTER FILLED WITH SEMEN. THATS SO STUPID I FORGOT IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SCARY. BEST CRINGE COMEDY OF THE YEAR :D

Tremors: legitimately great movie with a hundred shitty sequels. like saw but your faves win so you walk away filled with determination rather than sad and disappointed. enjoyment of tragedies are a privilege awarded to those who are neurotypical.

Zombieland: gore done right. the only casualty is mindless zomzoms and bill murray. good. granted it counts as a romance and a comedy but honestly last time I watched it I cried at the part where you find out buck isn't tallahassee's dog. god I love that movie. AND FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS IS THE MOST BADASS MOVIE OPENER EVER.

The Fly: Jeff fucking goldblum. amazing effects for good reasons. need I say more? the original doesn't exist because 1950s horror movies are all bad because all 1950s movies are bad. the 1950s should just be purged from america's records except for pleasantville.

All other Stephen king movies: hit or miss but mostly still good. although very few are actual horror.

10 cloverfield lane: more of a thriller like above's misery but still an amazing movie.

Peeping Tom: literally a movie about how creepy it is to fetishize the deaths of women WHILE LITERALLY FETISHIZING THE DEATHS OF WOMEN. like, come on man. how do you miss your own point so completely?

Invasion of the body snatchers: it's not horror and if it's made to be horror using gore it's shit. the whole thing is just an allegory to the joe mccarthy communism witch hunts anyway.

Cube trilogy: the ultimate b movies. so bad they're good. and it's such an interesting concept too!

Killer Klowns from Outer Space: fucking alien clowns come to earth to turn us into cotton candy by killing us using carnival fare. THIS IS THE GREATEST BAD MOVIE EVER MADE.

All horror movies based on horror video games: either irredeemably bad, or action movies

All creepy Netflix horror movies: wow any idiot with a camera and basic cgi skills can throw shit together to make a movie these days, huh

The Slender Man: I am literally too pissed off about this movie to insult it.

Marble Hornets, Tribe Twelve, the Slender Man movie on YouTube: triumphs of meta, editing, found footage, proof of concept, and story. Slenderman is such a malleable entity for a perfect horror experience, HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY FUCK THAT UP? YOUD HAVE TO BE INTENTIONALLY SABOTAGING YOUR WHOLE MOVIE TO FUCK IT UP AS BAD AS SOMEone who exclusively directs remakes... oh... oh no.

Wrong Turn: one mediocre movie and a dozen loathesome snoozefests coasting by on shock value

Troll 2:

oh god

they're eating her

and then

they're gonna eat me

...

oh my gooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-

(Troll 2 is literally the worst movie ever made and I have to respect it for that at least)

but yeah, horror is just bad for movies. but for video games, though...

[garyofrivia]

For They Shall Be Satisfied

Arthur Morgan x OC

Chapter 1

(masterlist in bio - find more chapters there!)

Summary: In the days before the Blackwater Massacre, everything was simpler. Life has never been about the delicacies of luxury for the Van der Linde gang. It’s about surviving. Annie Bolton is no stranger to survival. With a natural talent for robbing, killing, and con-artistry, she fit in perfectly when she fell in with Dutch and company 6 years ago. But with time, more than what meets the eye is revealed. Not everyone is who they say they are and everything is always more than it seems. What is uncovered from beneath the guise of freedom and liberty is a world full of chaos, death, and deceit. For Arthur, John, Dutch, and Annie, the struggle for power is coming to an end and the time to make important decisions closes in, quicker than any of them could prepare for. (Takes place just before RDR2 and then continues into the game's events - Arthur will get his happy ending if it's the last thing I do goddamn it)

A/N: soo this is my first chaptered RDR fic, heck! feel free to let me know what ya think, stay tuned for updates, she’s gonna be a long one, kids. 

Warnings/Categories: Violence, Angst

(WC: 4,312)

The plains of West Elizabeth were just as they had always been. Dry, hot, barren, practically a desert. For miles, all you could see was grassland that seemingly swallowed the horizon. It gave the illusion of being flat, though jagged rocks stuck out of the earth like fangs. Steep hills and ridges disrupted the terrain and painted the picture of a wasteland, though it was quite the contrary. The wildlife that thrived there endured the elements as they came. When it rained, it poured. At night, the temperatures reached near freezing, a stark contrast to the scorching midday sun with rays that seemed to make its way through every cloud break in the sky. Even in early spring, it was unbearable. With the heat beating down on her shoulders, the hunter on the road finally gave into the temptation of shedding her jacket and slung it over her horse’s back behind the saddle. She was a tall, fair woman, with strong shoulders atop her lean frame and wide hips. Her long, deep brown hair was tied off her sweaty neck and tied into a braid down her back, and even without the jacket she felt as if she was baking alive in the dry heat. She wiped the sweat from her brow and grimaced. She truly did not miss the this climate.

Annie Bolton had gone out alone on a hunting trip for a few days to the northwestern part of West Elizabeth. She told herself that it was a way to get away from camp and seemingly everyone’s watchful eyes for a while and to scout the perimeter of the territory as she tracked herds of pronghorn. The trip had been relatively unsuccessful, and while she collected about a half-dozen jackrabbit pelts, the bigger game in the area had seemed to have disappeared. She was trekking back to camp on foot, leading her stallion, Nero, around snake holes and loose rocks. Her bowstring was rubbing her collarbone raw, but she didn’t care. The frustration of the hunt had sent her spiraling into a whirlwind of thought. The Van der Linde gang had retreated east to escape the long arm of the law in multiple. Dutch had thought it best, since that’s really the only direction they could go without running out of land. Civilization did not sit well with the gang; or rather, the gang didn’t sit well with civilization. While the area around Blackwater wasn’t as populated or industrialized as other places out east, it was still… different. On the other hand, cities and towns offered profitable more opportunities than the open frontier. Annie and Hosea made a killing in the towns. They were a good team when they worked together, especially considering he taught her everything she knows about running a scheme. She was a natural at it, sweet talking any unsuspecting businessman at a saloon she could to draw their attention and give them the rundown, but she preferred to remain in the background and watch from afar. The more information she could gather about her surroundings, the better. She never let anyone go into a job unprepared for a situation that could take a wrong turn. Almost every stagecoach hit, heist, homestead run, or bank robbery that she had taken point on had been a success. Even though she’d been running with the Dutch for less than a quarter of the time his right hand, Arthur Morgan, had been, she’d quickly risen to the top of the food chain under Hosea’s wing. She proved herself to be a valuable member of the team many times over. Although to her, nothing ever seemed to be enough. It’s not that Dutch didn’t like her. He called her his daughter and he trusted her with big jobs as much as he did Arthur or Hosea. But he was… off, as of late. He’d sometimes pull Hosea aside and they’d speak quietly about something in his tent and usually, the conversations turned into heated arguments. She never caught a full conversation, but for more reasons than one, she knew a lot of them had to have been about her. Annie was a loner, even within the gang. After 6 years with them, she still felt the need to keep to herself. This didn’t seem to sit well with Dutch. She’d never cross anyone, not even in her wildest dreams. She would, and had, put herself in any kind of danger to protect them, just as they would each other. Every time it came up with Arthur, which was rarely a conversation either of them enjoyed having, he assured her that her that Dutch loved her like his own. She never believed him, so she’d taken it upon herself to prove her worth. And that she did. But, the less than successful hunting trip had caused her to miss out on a caravan robbery near Blackwater and had barely any game to show for it. She and and her horse both felt defeated as they trudged on through the thick undergrowth and uneven ground. What at first seemed to be a gust of wind in the brush, she soon realized was a voice from over a small ridge to her left. She immediately halted in her tracks and whipped out the binoculars from her saddlebag. She crouched down and approached carefully. Two men came into view and she could just barely make out what they were saying. “I jus’ don’t think it’s a good idea,” the man standing next to a tree said loudly. He spoke in an Irish accent that sent shivers down Annie’s spine. It can’t be… “It don’t matter what you think, dumbass.”  “That much is clear.” “Boss says it’s the best thing we can do right now. So we’ll wait up for Thomas and Connelly and the rest of their lot and just do what we’re told.” She peered through her binoculars and caught a glimpse of their faces and notorious blue coats, recognizing them instantly. O’Driscolls. Damn it. It somehow wasn’t a surprise, though it was a bit puzzling. What are they doing this far south? As if on cue, band of five men rode into view and towards the small encampment. “Howdy, Collins. O’Shea,” the man on the first horse greeted them. “Connelly is brining the rest of the boys right behind us. The pair of you ready to go catch us some Van der Lindes?”  Shit. “Sure, their hit’s supposed to be just north of here. We scouted the area.”  SHIT. Without wasting any time, she took off back to Nero and spurred him into a gallop towards camp. Panic was hitching in her chest. It’d only be a few weeks since they’d been camped near Blackwater and the O’Driscolls shouldn’t have been able to find them so quickly. And the chances of them catching wind of the caravan job were slim to none. Something was wrong. The sight of Charles standing guard just outside camp alarmed her for some reason. She figured he’d be on with the job, but they must have been shorthanded for guard duty. “Annie-,” he started to say something, but she sped past him and right into the heart of camp. “Dutch!” she called. The Count and Boudicca were hitched next to each other near Strauss’s wagon. “Dutch!” “Annie, why on Earth are you yellin’?” Dutch brushed passed the flap of his tent with Arthur on his heels. “It’s the O’Driscolls. They’re headin’ to the caravan. I don’t know what they’re plannin’, but it can’t be good.” “Shit. Where are they?” “East, down the river a ways. Arthur, let’s go.” Arthur groaned and jogged towards his horse. “Jesus.” “I need to come with you,” Dutch said, starting for The Count. “No, they’ll be gunnin’ for you,” Annie said. “And we need people here to protect camp in case they find it, and by the looks of it it’s only you, the Callander boys, and Charles.” “Were you followed?” Dutch says, narrowing his eyes. “No, of course not! We don’t have time for this,” she said a bit too harshly. Dutch opened his mouth to snap at her but Arthur cut him off. “She’s right, Dutch. Who knows how they found us, they might have more men than just the ones she saw.” “Fine,” Dutch said, nodding reluctantly. “Go on, then.” She took off again at full speed with Arthur at her side. He pulled slightly ahead, leading the way to the hit location. “Why aren’t you on the job, Arthur?” she said. “Who’s takin’ the lead?” “John is,” he replied, monotone. “Dutch wanted a few errands taken care of. Had to tend to that first with Bill, I was gonna catch up later.” “Didn’t seem like it. Since when are you an errand boy and John gets to run point?” “Since today, apparently. Since you wanna ask me all these questions, where the hell have you been?” “Hunting.” “Did you toss all the game back after reelin’ ‘em in? Or did they just get up to put their pelts back on and walk home?” “Shut up. I went ‘cause I thought there would be plenty of guns for this job. Not my fault the fields are dry as hell.” “I told you, I was gonna go!” “Either way, it’s done with now. All that scouting for nothin’. Damn it.” “Well…” She glanced over to him and saw the familiar, sly gleam in his eyes. “What?” “We could cut these boys off. Save the job from goin’ sour. Lord knows we need the money.” Annie paused to think and slowed Nero to a canter, Arthur following suit. “What if they have more men, like you said?” He shrugged. “What’s that magical gut of yours tellin’ you?” “We could… split up?” “Neither of us are that good with a pistol to take on that many O’Driscoll boys alone. I appreciate the sentiment, though.” “Well, I could ride up on that ridge with my rifle just before where the hit’s gonna go down. Pick ‘em off as they come in, with you on the ground to round up the stragglers.” “Now, there’s an idea,” he said, satisfied. “You wanted a hunt, didn’t ya?” Annie smirked and kicked Nero to a gallop again, leaving Arthur to make his way to the rest of the gang. It was about a five minute ride by the time she got to the ridge. She pulled her worn, black bandana over her nose and mouth and dismounted. With a quick survey of the area, she pulled the sniper rifle from her saddle and began aiming to adjust the scope, finding the gang in her sights, just around the bend that would hide them from the oncoming caravan. Arthur tipped his hat when he saw her wave from the ridge and returned to arguing with John. No sign of the O’Driscolls or the stage coaches yet. Annie sighed with relief. They’d gotten there with time to spare. She kept an eye on the gang. John had brought Sean, Micah, Javier, and Lenny. “Idiot,” she mumbled to herself. It wasn’t nearly enough men for a robbery like this in broad daylight. He and Arthur both looked heated, which was nothing new. A few years before, John had run off for a while, longer than he should have according to Arthur. They’d been at each other’s throats since he got back. Annie saw Arthur point to her and across the fields, probably telling the rest of them what the plan was. As he ran off to get in position, she turned her attention to the east. It wasn’t long before the onslaught of O’Driscolls came riding across the plains. Annie quickly counted ten of them in total. This wasn’t going to be easy. She took in a deep breath and lined up her first shot, firing with a steady exhale. One down. The man’s head bobbled, his body immediately going limp and falling sideways off his horse. The piercing sound of the sniper rifle took the rest of them by surprise, but they kept formation, not knowing where the fire was coming from. She pulled the trigger twice more, dropping another two men. Seven more to go. They scattered with the third shot and Arthur instantly took off towards the four riders going south, while Annie focused her fire on the three fleeing north. From her peripherals, she saw the gang fall into motion as the first stagecoach entered the valley, John at the head. She was surprised they hadn’t stopped and turned around the wagons at the first sounds of gunfire. City folk had once again proven themselves to be notoriously naive. One of the O’Driscoll boys ran right past the disoriented escorts, but Annie splattered his brains on the road right next to them. She didn’t miss a shot, even from this distance with moving targets. Though Arthur and the rest of the boys would never admit it, she was the best sharpshooter in the gang. If there was one thing she was sure of about herself, it was her steady aim. She picked off the last O’Driscoll in her sights and turned her attention back to the heist. The three moronic escorts were off to the side in front of Micah on their knees, clear of the robbery. Three coaches full of rich travelers and precious cargo meant a huge haul for them. This was the biggest job they’d done in a few months and she prayed nothing more would get in the way as she packed her gun onto her saddle and began to mount up to help Arthur. “Long time no see, Bolton’.” She froze. The eerily familiar voice came from behind her. A revolver hammer locked into place and a chill ran down her neck when she felt the barrel turn its aim on her. “Gregory,” she said, glancing over her shoulder and raising her hands. “What brings you boys to these parts?” “Just on the trail of some vermin. Looks like I caught myself some. Why don’t you come on home with me?” “Why? You miss me?” “I sure as hell don’t. Colm do, though. I’m just doin’ his biddin’,” he scoffed Anger rose up within her at the mention of Colm. He’d taken her in when she was a child, but not in the way Dutch did with orphans who need a home. He was more like her owner, making her dress up for jobs to use her as bait, training her to kill, steal, and fight. If she did do it the way he said, she earned herself a beating, if he was feeling kind. She eventually was able to get out when she was about 13. They’d had a few run-ins since, but she always somehow managed to escape. But it came close once. Too close. About a year ago, she was laying in her bed, mending the gunshot wound that should have killed her. The bullet somehow left all vital organs undamaged, missing her left lung by just under an inch. It still gave her a run for her money when it got infected after being stranded out in the elements for a day or two. Hosea found her facedown in the mud, 40 yards from camp. She didn’t remember how, but she walked and dragged herself the whole way from town, nearly six miles away. How she didn’t bleed out was beyond anyone. By some unruly stroke of luck, surely. She slowly turned to face the man she once knew as Joseph Gregory. His left shoulder was shot, likely in the collarbone from the way his arm was limp at his side. He must have been one to get away from Arthur. Now that he had her cornered once and for all, the manic grin across his face was hauntingly overjoyed. “You boys been followin’ us, then?” “‘Course we have,” he said. He’d lost a lot of blood, but he seemed more angry than concerned. “There’s a price on your head in two different states. Figure it’s easy money.” “Well, seems like nothin’s changed with you. You can’t take me in to the law if Colm wants me. Where’s your loyalty lie, Joey? With Colm or with the money?” Gregory smiled. “Colm says he’ll let me have you after he’s done with what he needs to do witcha. I’m gonna call the bounty money a bonus.” “We both know that’s a damn lie.” “It ain’t!” “So you intendin’ to take me alive, then?” “So long as you cooperate. I’ll shoot them pretty little legs right off ya if you don’t. He only needs a part of you still breathin’.” “C’mon now, you don’t think I’ll willingly get on that nasty ole nag of yours, hands tied with no way of defendin’ myself, do you?” His smile faded. “I don’t see how you’re in any position to be makin’ demands, bitch.” “Go on, then,” she taunted, dropping her hands to her side. “Shoot my ‘pretty little legs’ off.” He frowned and cinched his eyebrows together in frustration. It was a thin line she was treading, but she knew Colm O’Driscoll. He wanted her for himself. And Gregory was afraid of Colm more than he hated Annie. “You can ride your own horse,” he mumbled, reluctantly. “But I gotta tie your hands to my saddle.” She smirked and held her hands out. “See? That seems reasonable.” He holstered his gun and started to restrain her. Annie smiled when she saw the rider in the black hat pop up over the hill, just behind Gregory. Arthur pressed a finger to his lips and crept towards them, revolver in hand. When he was in position he nodded and Annie made her move. “Achoo!” she sneezed right into Gregory’s face, stunning him for half a second. It was enough time for Arthur to jump into action and pressed the gun right into the O’Driscoll’s spinal cord. Annie rubbed her nose, mockingly. “Sorry, must be all the dust.” “You goddamn bitch! I’ll gut you for this!” “Hey now, didn’t your mama ever teach you how to talk to a lady?” Arthur said. He grabbed Gregory by his arm and forced him to the ground, face down. “That ain’t no lady,” Gregory snarled. “That’s a damned she-devil.” Annie chuckled as Arthur smashed the butt of his gun into the man’s head, making him yelp like a dog. “Nah, he’s right, Arthur. I ain’t no lady. I’m so, so much worse.” She approached him and knelt so that he could see her face clearly. “Now, if you survive this, you tell Colm we’re far too smart for him. We’ll always see him comin’. We’ll always be one step ahead. Always.” She nodded to Arthur and he hogtied him without struggle. “C’mere,” he said, slinging Gregory onto his shoulder and walking him down the hill to the his horse. He threw him on the back and secured him to his own saddle. “Have a good trip, now. Make sure you take a left at the crossroads.” With that, Annie slapped the man’s horse and they took off into the distance. “You shoulda shot him,” she said. “I didn’t wanna miss and accidentally hit you.” “All the same.” “You okay?” She shuffled her feet and adjusted the brim of her hat. “Yeah, no reason why I shouldn’t be.” “Well, you were just starin’ down the barrel of that bastard’s gun.” “Nothin’ new. Concern’s not a good look for you, Arthur.” “Sure. How many you get?” “In all? Six.” “How many shots?” Annie grinned deviously. “Do I really need to answer that?” “No,” Arthur laughed and shook his head. “You sure don’t” Annie’s smile faded and she sighed. “They’re trackin’ us. Bastard said so himself. They’re… uh, tryin’a get to me.” “Shit. I knew Colm to be vengeful, but not like this. What did you even do to the man, again?” “I left him, joined up with his sworn enemy, and started killin’ his men. I reckon that’d make him pretty mad.” “This ain’t mad. This is crazy.” “There a difference?” Before he could respond they saw John ride up to them from around the side of the hill, followed closely by the rest of the gang on the job. “Thanks for havin’ our back, you two,” John said, nodding to the pair of them. Javier tossed them both a single stack of bills. “Here’s your cut. We should be gettin’ outta here.” “Right, Arthur and Annie, always there to save the goddamn day.” Micah said, a bit too loudly. “We didn’t run it, why do we get a cut?” Annie asked, ignoring Micah’s jab. “There wouldn’t have been a bloody job if it weren’t for you two bastards,” Sean chimed in. “Why are you arguin’? Let’s get a move on!” “I ain’t arguin’,” Arthur said, shrugging. He whistled for his horse and Annie did the same. “Let’s go, law’ll be here any minute on account of all the gunfire. Separate ways everyone. Stay outta sight and outta trouble.” Annie mounted her horse and turned to ride off with the rest of them when she noticed Arthur hanging back, taking in the view of the scattered O’Driscoll corpses from the ridge. She rode up to him and noticed a puzzled look on his face. “What is it?” “Oh, uhh… I was just… wonderin’ about how they heard about the heist. Kinda suspicious, don’t ya think?” Annie sighed. “We can figure all that out at camp. There’s nothin’ here that’ll help.” “Maybe there’s -.” “Arthur,” she said, cutting him off. “What is it?” He sighed, hesitating. “It’s Dutch. He’s concerned for… well, us. You and I.” “Why’s that?” “A while back he told me that Colm’s apparently been hearin’ the message that you’re close with me. Dutch says he’ll try to use me to get to you. Now I don’t rightly worry about myself in that regard. But the way Colm’s been gunnin’ for you… It’s unsettling.” Annie shifted in her saddle, a bit unnerved. “Why’s any of this on Dutch’s mind?” “Don’t be like that, Annie, he’s only lookin’ out for the gang.” “Just seems he shoulda come to me about it, seein’ as it’s my responsibility.” “It’s just as much mine as it is yours.” “Is it? You don’t know what Colm’s capable of, I can guarantee you that much.” Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think I know what he’s done?” “No,” she said, plainly. “I don’t. The next time you or Dutch have a conversation about who will be dyin’ ‘cause of me, I’d like to be there for it.” “We weren’t talkin’ about-.” “About what? Throwin’ me out?” “Jesus, no! Of course not, Dutch’d never do that to one of his own.” “Really?” she scoffed. “I was an O’Driscoll once, you think he’s forgotten about that?” “He ain’t Colm. You were a kid, same as all of us when we fell into this life. Dutch knows that, he knows your story, how it went for you. It’s bad business.” “He ain’t know the half of it. Neither do you.” “Tell me then,” he challenged, raising his hands in exasperation. “If you’re so hellbent on us knowin’ the whole story.” “I ain’t,” Annie snapped. “Look. I know what Colm’ll do once he’s got his sights set on someone. He’ll use anyone he can, anyone you’re close to.” “Is that what we are then, Arthur? ‘Close’?” He paused, taken aback by the question. “Well, I don’t know, are we?” Annie shook her head and sighed loudly. She felt a confusing mix of anger and sadness swirling in her stomach. If the two of them had anything in common, it was their temper. “Arthur, you gotta understand, if anything happened to you… or the rest of the gang for that matter... because of me, I’d never forgive myself. I was a fool for hopin’ it’d be different. After everything I’ve done…” Arthur didn’t seem like he knew how to respond. He just looked at her with longing eyes, begging her to not finish building the wall she’d been putting up between them for as long as he’s known her. The silence grew more and more tense between them. But she realized she knew what she had to do. “I’ll talk to Dutch and Hosea,” she continued, her voice suddenly weak. “I’ll do a few more jobs with you all, help you out some while I make what I need to be on my way.” Arthur shook his head in denial. “No, Annie. That ain’t gonna go over well.” “Damn what Dutch says then. I won’t do that to everyone. We have our differences he and I, but you all are fine people. Hosea will-.” “No, not with Dutch. Not with Hosea. With me, with John and Charles, Lenny, and Tilly and the rest of everyone-.” “I just-.” “Shut up for once, will ya?” he snapped at her. Her breath hitch on the lump forming in her throat and she suddenly couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. “Annie, we’re family now, ain’t we? We’ll protect you. I will. I won’t… I can’t do none of this without you. None of us can, we need you.” “We should go, Arthur,” she said, her voice cracking. The feeling of dread sank in her stomach like a rock. She lowered her head so her hat hid her face, fearful of what her expression might reveal. “Please, can I see you at camp? Can we talk about this?” “Since when are you one for talkin’?” She cleared her throat and hesitated. “I’ll meet you back there.” With that, she took off towards Blackwater, mustering all her strength to hold herself together. She knew it wouldn't last very long.

[megabadbunny]

Clara/Rose #9 for the kissfic-prompty- thing please :).

Sure thing, nonny! Just fyi though, I did take a tiny bit of liberty with the prompt, since I only really ship and write Rose with the Doctor. (But I think you’ll find it still very much fills the request. ;)

***

Rose is eleven years, two months, and twenty-eight days old when she has her first kiss.

The kiss is commemorated forever in her diary in a bright-pink scrawl. Kissed Mickey today, the entry reads. After break, beneath the stands. It was nice. Sort of wet. Might do it again. She punctuates the entry with a series of glittery flower stickers, slapping several on the diary’s binding, another next to Mickey’s name.

(She adds a heart next to it–that’s what kisses mean, right? Hearts and love and gooey-fluttering feelings in your tummy? Either way, the stickers and the heart all feel very official. First kiss, check.)

Rose nods in satisfaction.

**

Rose is sixteen years, two months, and twelve days old when she has her (second) first kiss.

Jimmy kissed me today!!! she writes in her diary–it’s a little faded now, fraying at the edges and underneath the stickers where their corners peel and yellow, but it’s still got empty pages for writing-in. Thot he was still w Hayley but he said nah its all sorted. Wants me to go see his band play down the pub tomorrow n said maybe hell come w me to winter formal! I cant believe it everythings coming up Rose (ha)  ♥♥♥.

She doesn’t have any stickers to seal her sentiment this time (she’s too old and worldly for that sort of thing now anyway, isn’t she?) so instead she sneaks her mum’s very best lipstick and plants a luscious kiss next to the entry in a shade as brilliantly scarlet as her name. She pulls back with a grin, surveying her handiwork. It all feels very adult, doesn’t it? Much more grown-up than cartoon-flowers and glitter.

Rose picks up a gel pen and scribbles a series of Mrs. Rose Stone variants on a half-dozen pages.

**

Rose is sixteen years, seven months, and nine days old when Jimmy Stone breaks her heart.

(She is sixteen years, seven months, and ten days old when she leaves him.)

**

Rose has lost track of her age by the time she has her first kiss.

Oh, she’s sure she’s in her early twenties, give or take a few months, and she’s also sure the Doctor could track it for her, if she asked–could probably tick off the digits down to the millisecond, counting off the minutes that had passed since “Run”. She’s equally sure that she doesn’t care, because the Doctor just emerged from their room in the palace wearing a curve-hugging maroon suit. No, wait; she’s wearing a curve-hugging maroonSuit. It definitely deserves that capital S.

And if Rose didn’t know any better, she’d think those were heels.

“Now remember,” says the Doctor, taking Rose by the elbow as she whispers in her ear, her voice low and velvety-soft as it sends shivers caressing down Rose’s spine, “I’m just Clara, here. Clara Oswald. No mention of the Doctor. Got it?”

“Sure thing, Doctor,” Rose murmurs.

The Doctor arches an amused eyebrow at her. “You know, it would really help to sell the whole ‘married’ thing if you at least devoted a tiny bit of effort to remembering my alias,” she says with a wry grin.

Rose nods, fully aware that these words are passing in one ear and out the other, because has the Doctor’s noise always been so cute and pointed like that? What about her dimples–did that always happen when she smiled? Did her fringe always fall into her eyes just so? Were her eyelashes always so lush? How much neck is exposed by those undone-buttons and that loose tie? And just how perfect would those flowerbud-firm lips feel beneath Rose’s?

(The answers, Rose knows, are yes, yes, yes, yes, a lot, and bloody magnificent–they’re the same answers she always comes up with, even if she hasn’t technically got any proof for that last one. Not yet, anyway.)

“Everything all right here?” asks a passing guard and, panicking, Rose pushes the Doctor up against the wall behind her.

“Wha–” the Doctor tries to say, but her voice is muffled by Rose’s lips pressing against hers. The kiss is over almost as soon as it begins, Rose pulling back with wide eyes.

(Yup–bloody magnificent.)

The Doctor stares back at her, mouth hanging open in surprise. Rose tries to force herself to speak–if they’re going to be married, then kissing’s just part of the gig, isn’t it? It’s all for the sake of staying in-character, right?–but then it’s like gravity has taken over and the two of them collide, hands in each other’s hair, hips pulled flush with hips, mouths pressed together and moving with soft, wet deliberation. It could still almost be part of the act but then oh, that’s a delightful hum building in the Doctor’s throat, a hum Rose feels rather than hears with their chests pressed together the way they are, and oh, that’s the Doctor’s tongue in her mouth, isn’t it? And suddenly Rose has gone a bit jellylike in the knees.

The guard behind them coughs and they part with a loud smack.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there!” Rose squeaks, her voice just a little too high and words just a little too rushed. “We were just having a quick peck–”

“Like the married people do,” the Doctor quickly supplies.

“–and we just–we didn’t hear you,” Rose finishes lamely, her cheeks burning fire-red. “But yeah, everything’s all right, everything’s perfectly fine.”

She shoots the Doctor a worried look despite herself. “Right, Doc–Clara?”

The Doctor smiles. “Yeah,” she says gently, her smile gone soft and eyes tender. “Everything’s brilliant.”

The two of them can’t tear their eyes away, just grinning at each other like idiots, and Rose is dimly aware of the guard passing by, muttering something derisive about all these damn newlyweds under his breath.

**

(Rose lost her diary when she was seventeen years, four months, and nineteen days old, but if she still had it, today’s entry would go something like this:

Kissed the Doctor. Bloody magnificent. Definitely going to do it again.)

***

send me a [femslash] kiss prompt!

more fic!

[brimbrimbrimbrim]

Lucas would 100% fight cuddles, but secretly love it. Yes. Give me attention. Give me love. But not in public, also I WILL shove your clingy ass to the floor if someone comes in. Gotta reputation to uphold. But ahhh later, k?

I am so down for this headcanon, Anon. In fact, I got a bit inspired and wrote a little one-shot for this. Hopefully, someone gets a kick out of reading it as much as I did writing it.

Zoe didn’t spy on Lucas all that much, not after that one summer in ‘09 when she found out that her older brother liked to masturbate to German, humiliation porn…the results of which hadn’t been her proudest moment. Probably shouldn’t have thrown a stack of VHS’s at his pale, shamed face until he’d caught an edge of one naked tape in the temple and started bleeding. The way she’d handled that night may have ended up giving him a complexion he probably didn’t deserve, but alas, she’d kept her nose out of his business after that. At least she’d apologized for it the next day, much to both of their embarrassment.

This time was different, though. Lucas, at the ripe age of twenty-seven, had his first girl over…he’d snuck her in when the house had gone quiet after dinner and the only way Zoe knew about it was because she’d forgotten to water the ferns outside the trailer and had gotten a quick look behind the crack of her door as Lucas was inputting the codes on his ‘Fortress of Solitude’, with the chick and her tight ass beside him; hands in her pockets.

Drop the fucking mic! - a real live, not-blown-up-with-plastic-skin girl?!

Zoe couldn’t believe it. What sorta bet had this chick lost?

No one in their right minds would have wanted to spend a second alone with that creep and yet Zoe had sat in her trailer all night waiting for the door of the barn to swing open, signaling that the girl was leaving…or that Lucas was disposing of a corpse. It sounded funny at the time, but after several hours Zoe got worried; a curious, concerning type of worry for her brother and the poor girl he’d brought home under the cover of darkness

She threw on a jacket, zipped it up to her chin and dragged the rusted crowbar from under her bed before bracing the cold, ready to crack open the second-floor vent and bypass that stupid lockdown he had on the front door. All the cacophony of bugs and swamp frogs had died down last week thanks to the cold air, but fat bats were fluttering overhead as Zoe stepped carefully across the backyard. A light upstairs on the main house was still on - her parent’s room. Her nose wrinkled, knowing what a light on after midnight meant. It was mighty dandy that her Mama and Daddy still liked each other like that, but hell…was everyone getting laid but her in this damn place?

Don’t even go there; she told herself, ignoring the pervasive image of her family members fornicating. Gross. A stray moan from somewhere on the property made her stop and grimace. Double-gross.

It must have been over a year since she’d last snuck into Lucas’ hidey-hole, and the last time had been to steal her VHS player back. She hadn’t run into him then, but now, as she swung the vent open on it’s screaming hinges, she wondered what the fuck she was going to do if she saw somethin’ illegal going on. Call the cops? - on her own brother? No, she didn’t think he was actually capable of anything serious like rape or murder…even if he was probably the kinda guy that got off on that shit. Trying not to think too much about what she was stepping into, Zoe shoved her legs through the opening and slid down the metal wall with nary a sound. Living a life with the kinda family she had at least made her good at sneaking around like this.

Rarely did she get caught.

There was a vibrating pulse under her feet and the distant sound of…what - was that her ‘Black Keys’ CD?

That fuck-face…she’d been wondering where that had run off too. Lucas and his sticky fingers. It wasn’t something he’d have ever listened too. It didn’t have enough gutter bass to it for his liking, so it must have been something for the girl which only peaked her curiosity all the more. If she liked the ‘Keys,’ she couldn’t have been that bad…right?

His door was cracked, casting a thin, widening triangle of light over the dusty concrete floors. Zoe could hear a couple of grunts; male grunts…not overtly sexual but it still made her pause and frown, wondering if this was worth the possibility of seeing her gross brother in a compromising situation again.

‘Knock it off will ya?!’

That snarl was her brother alright; Lucas with a stick up his ass, but the short, female giggle that followed it only proposed more questions. What the hell was going on behind that door that would leave Lucas as the one complaining?

Zoe always had thought he was one of those self-hating gay guys, trying to cover up their own hangups with body language that suggested he had coal turning to diamonds up his ass. Ugh, bad thoughts again. She needed to stop that before her dinner of pork chops and collard greens came back up.

Through the cheap door and a sweet drum solo, Zoe heard Lucas emit a long, defeated growl. Her brows pinched, and against her better judgment, she took a few soft steps towards the door.

Thankfully Lucas hadn’t changed the layout of his shithole since the last time she’d ‘visited.’ Everything was where it’d been when she’d busted the door down and ripped her VHS outta his system a year ago…except he’d apparently bought a new player since then. The TV on the floor flickered that skeleton army scene from ‘Jason and the Argonauts’ on mute…highlighting the baffling sight of Lucas with a red, frozen face and that cute girl wrapped around him; arms and all. The chick was practically glued to him with her face buried in his neck and rubbing her nose into folds of his hood as he grumbled.

It was…kinda cute, actually.

Zoe watched her brother deflated under the forced affection; saw his mouth twitch at the corners, smiling just before the girl lifted her face up and gave his hard jawline a wet raspberry. Lucas jumped, arms trapped at his sides and cursed over the music, throwing himself back into the sofa cushions. The girl fell with him, laying over his body in a pair of tight jean shorts and a tank top with some band’s logo printed in white on the back - it looked like a goat man with a huge cock…but Zoe couldn’t tell for sure.

“Why ya gotta be such ah’ clingy bitch all tha’ damn time…” Lucas hollered, wiggling around her embrace until she laughed, making him go red again; brows up. Zoe watched with a tight mouth as the girl leaned in and gave her brother’s nose a quick kiss, only to shove her head up under his chin and squeeze him all the tighter.

“Don’t play coy, Lucas,” she said into his chest - somehow Zoe could make out the words over the din of music, “I know you like this.” - and as if to prove her point Zoe had the skinny view through the door crack of this crazy chick as she rolled her hips down into her brother’s crotch. Zoe could appreciate the female form, hell…she’d been with a couple of ‘em before, and she had to admit the girl had a nice ass as it clenched while her hips canted downwards.

“…shit…c-can ya’ do that again?” Lucas asked, sounding so small and pathetic and oh-shit, Zoe had always thought he was, but now she knew for sure that her older brother was still a green- virgin! Unable to choke it down, Zoe laughed without a filter - loud and unrelenting and not giving a shit that she’d blown her position. Another part of her was just relieved the whole thing she’d been worried about was all around as innocent as it could be - too innocent for a guy on the ass end of his twenties.

“Shit!” Zoe heard Lucas shout as her eyes squeezed shut under a greater heave of laughter.

It was funny! - how could she not swing the door open and watch, with even greater relish, as Lucas sat up and toss his girlfriend on the floor? The girl fell off almost gracefully, gasping hard before settling back on her elbows; almost as if she’d been kicked off a dozen times already and knew how to drop and roll like a pro by now. That also, in of itself was hilarious.

Zoe clutched her stomach and choked on another fit of laughter while Lucas raised his knees up, trying to hide the obvious boner in his pants.

That high-tension look was back in place, like a lock latching back. Zoe would feel guilty for fucking up a rare moment for him later that night, but right then she was enjoying the look of embarrassed hatred on his face while his ‘girlfriend’ stared over at her with wide, green eyes and a flushed face. Hell…if and when she was done with her stupid brother Zoe might try and hit that, but anyone weird enough to go for someone like Lucas probably had bigger problems than he did.

There, on the floor, clearing away the shocked expression, the girl sat up on her knees and smiled, “Y-you must be Zoe…bad circumstances but it’s ah’ pleasure to meet ya, I’m-”

“She’s ‘Jus’ Leaving,‘” Lucas butted in, folding his arms over his lap; head on his shoulders with a cast-down expression under the hood. He looked like someone had stolen his ice cream cone or something, which cut through Zoe’s mean pleasure enough to remind her off the ol’ days when they were just kids, shitty and inseparable.

Yeah, Zoe felt guilty about it, but to ‘Jus’ Leaving’s’ credit, she didn’t take it personally. There was something real fucked up about a girl that could lean in and kiss a guy’s cheek who’d just thrown them off onto the floor, who then proceeded to be a dick about it…

Zoe wasn’t allowed to walk the girl out, but Lucas shoved her shoulder once they were outside and dug his fingers into his ‘girlfriend's’ arm, pulling them across the yard without a single word. The chick gave a short wave Zoe’s way, which she returned with a baffled look no doubt. The whole thing was like somethin’ out of ‘The Twilight Zone’…parallel dimensions…or Stockholm syndrome, maybe. Lucas couldn’t have gotten someone that understanding and hot otherwise.

[snibblestheblog]

alphabet soup - X

XXYYXX (2012) by XXYYXX

first impressions: 

I was worried that the entire album would be really slow based on the first half of “About You” and the other song I’ve already listened to, “Tied2u.” There’s nothing wrong with a mellower electronic album, I just didn’t think I was really in the mood for that when I started the album. It definitely wasn’t as slow as I thought it was going to be, but I thought the pacing of certain tracks when they’re put next to each other was a little funky. In other words, I like certain songs, but I don’t know if I want to listen to this album all the way through again. 8/10��

First time listening to XXYYXX so I went into this one blind and was pleasantly surprised by the first track. I loved the slow vibe of it and felt it was a good opening track. The upbeat track right after that didn’t really hit it for me though and it felt like it dragged a bit. “Fields” and “Set It Off” were pretty good and pulled me back in. The samples on those actually sounded very familiar. In fact, I felt that  way for a lot of the tracks on this album. Not necessarily a good thing but the guy was 16 when he put this out so that’s pretty impressive. “DMT,” another slow progression track, was a good one as well. I think I just love the chill vibe of those tracks. The first half of the album was more memorable to me but that’s because by the time I would get to the second half, I was struggling to keep my focus. “Closer” was probably the better track on the second half. I didn’t really feel the remaining tracks though. Overall, it’s a good album and it wasn’t necessarily the pacing but the “familiarity” feeling that bothered me. I’ve only gone through the album 4 times so I definitely need to hear it a dozen more times but for now I’m giving it a 6.5/10 

reminds me of: 

…Trap artists, James Blake, recent Dirty Projectors, modern version of The Chemical Brothers

A minimalistic SFW version of Flying Lotus.

notes: 

Listening to this album in 2017 as opposed to 2012 when it was first released probably makes a big difference in what I’m hearing on this album and what I’m thinking about it. At this point, I don’t think it necessarily adds anything to the EDM spectrum although I do like the way in has the illusion of lyrics; does that make sense? Sometimes an EDM album features a lot of sick beats back to back to back without any lyrics and they’re painful to listen to outside of the context of a party because there aren’t lyrics to guide (?) the music. This album samples in such a way where the artist uses spliced vocals to give the illusion of comprehensible lyrics on every track and I like that about this album. I also liked listening to this while moving around. For some reason, it sounded nicer when I was walking around than when I was trying to do my work. Also, this guy is 21 years old.

standout tracks: 

“About You,” “Dmt,” and “Tied2u” - “Tied2u” is actually the only song that I had known from this band before listening to the album. I found this at a time when I was depressed and it really characterizes how I was feeling at the time: like I was drowning. I still like the way it sounds like a combination of molasses and longing. At some points in the album the loops get a little annoying, but in this track in particular, they comfort me.

“Set It Off” I just like the squeaky vocals accompanying the drums.

hard pass: 

“Breeze” (teeth whistling) and “Forest Fires” (actual lyrics - weak)

“Alone” and “Good Enough” were both boring. I felt like track picked up too late and I was waiting too long.

score: 

7/10 - I like what this album has to offer and I can see myself pulling a few of the tracks to use in a mix or play for other people. I don’t feel inclined to listen to the album all the way through again though.

7/10 - I might have been a little harsh with my initial score so I’ll raise it up a bit. This record was entertaining but nothing special and lacked any memorable tracks. In fact I cant remember any of the names even now but I still respect XXYYXXs young talent.

bonus:

Interview from one of the greatest music journalist in the game