#enjoy my grainy throw together post

[kxllakxm]

IT (2017)

This isn't real enough for you, Billy? I'm not real enough for you? It was real enough for Georgie!

[cantgetworsethanthistbh]

fluffy kid!stancest first kiss on glass shard beach would be so cute maybe by the swings or when they first find what would become the stan o war

combining these two together, but 2nd anon PLEASE know your ask got me writing old stancest at first that immediately turned hurt and comfort, so i'll be posting that when i actually finish it udndhdhdu this one is a bit of a rush job, BUT i hope you guys like it! this is my first time writing kid stancest, trying to run my head over how boys just banter and this is the best i could relay lmao. also if ford's internal dialogue isnt as flowery as it ought to be, it's mostly because i do still want it to sound like it's coming from a child, and i imagine Ford's internal dialogue wasn't fully realized until he's at least a littls older, you know?

anyway enough stalling: please enjoy!

~~~

Ford thinks he could stay like this forever.

Sitting on a crate, Stanford watches Stanley draw on the sand with the end of a big stick, planning all their great adventures when they finally get out of this place, the promise of their Big Day of Adventure made them giddy all day, bouncing on the heels of their feet all over the beach until the deck guys they "borrowed" a can of paint from earlier found them, chasing them off and forcing the two of them to take cover. They did, only belatedly realizing they had to come back for their ship since their dream did rely on them fixing up the boat to be in top condition for it to sail. Luckily they didn't take their ship, so the two of them were able to push it back into the alcove they found it, keeping it their own little secret.

Ford looks at it in awe again. In bold letters, "The Stan O' War" stares back at him. Their promise of the future. A future with his brother, forever

"And then— Poindexter are ya listening?!" Stan asks, tapping the stick lightly on Ford's head who swats it away with a laugh.

"Yeah, yeah! I am, I am!"

"Good, cuz you better hear this!" Stan resumes drawing on the sand. Ford looks down, tilting his head quizically.

"Why are we standing on top of the sun?"

"That's an octopus!" Stan points to the pile of squigly lines Ford thought had been the ocean. "See?"

"That's still kinda impossible."

"Aw, shuddap!" Stan scoffs playfully, then proceeds to draw fish tails with long noses and circle ends.  "Of course its possible! This is after I killed it, and we're doin' a victory cheer on top of it!" Stan pumps his fist in the air, and begins chanting, echoing loud across the alcove: "PINES! PINES! PINES! And after—"

"Wait, how did we kill it?"

"I beat it up, duh!"

"What did I do?"

Stan huffs. "You math, science and bored it to death, you big nerd," he says with an annoyed expression, which quickly gives away to snickers as he dodges the fistful of sand Ford throws in his direction, leaving a grainy cloud in its wake. Stan points back at his drawing, at the long nosed fish with lines protruding off the top. Until Ford blinks, and tilts his head again, realizing that the messy scribbles are probably meant to be... "Anyway, after we totally beat this giant octopus monster, all the mermaid babes will be all over us! They'd give us kisses, and hugs, and and–"

Covering his mouth with his hand, Ford snorts loudly. "Stanley... you want to kiss fish ladies?"

An offended look crosses Stan's face, and if it wasn't for the sunburn already staining his and Ford's skin an angry, blistering red, Ford could swear Stan was blushing, his cheeks puffing, brown eyes wide and fists clenching. Cute, Ford thinks, so quickly, he almost doesn't catch it.

But he does.

Just like how his shoulder catches Stan's fists, sending him to more fits of giggling as he goes down.

"Shaddup, shaddup, shut uuuuuuuup," Stan continues his playful assault, clearly trying to not to smile, but Ford's laughter catches him like the infectious bug that went around school three months ago, and his grin stretches wild as he pushes Ford to the ground, and planting himself on Ford's short legs. Ford's hand land on his shoulders, trying and obviously failing at pushing off his stronger brother with all his twelve fingered might, but maybe it's because Ford is laughing too much he's out of breath, chest shaking while he heaves his giggles. Maybe it's the weird but nice heaviness Stan is forcing on him, and Ford counts that as the fifth time this day Stan made him feel that: 'weird but nice.'

Yesterday was seven whole times.

"Get off me, jerk!"

"You're the jerk," Stan argues, catching Ford's hands and pinning them down to the sand, grinning at Ford who's completely caught under him. "You've been making fun of me the whole time!"

"No I wasn't! I think it's cool you wanna kiss fish ladies!"

"They're not fish ladies, Sixer! They're mermaids!" Stan argues, looking a lot like Ford when he exasperatedly explains that solving the daily crossword on the newspaper is not lame, just with the additional large gap between his teeth, bandage on his face, cute puffy cheeks, which almost sends Ford to another laughing fit. "Mermaids are cool! No, they're hot!"

"If you say so," Ford shrugs, feeling the soft grains of sand move against his back. "They'd smell like fish though, but I think you would like that."

"Pfff," Stan lets go and straightens up to blow a raspberry, tilting himself to flop onto the sand next to Ford, moving so his fingers brushed Ford's when at their hips. Sixth. "Like you're any different. I bet you have a lot of weird stuff you wanna kiss too. You're obsessed with your ano– anama—"

"Anamolies."

"Aliens. I bet you wanna kiss aliens."

"No I don't!"

"Yeah, you do!"

"I don't," Ford insists, but he's definitely thought about it. Not in a weird way, of course. He wonders about kissing a lot of things, like growing boys do, like the health developmental sections of science books say so! Girls. Boys sometimes.

Boys most of the time.

A boy, most of the time.

"If you say so," Stan repeats dismissively, stretching his arms over his head while Ford watches behind his glasses. Feeling the sand starting to get to that 'pointy, sticky and annoying' state when someone lays on it, he sits up, eyes landing on the Stan O' War again. Stan follows, quickly sitting up.

"What'cha thinking of?"

"Just wondering the capability of weight distribution on the boat."

"Uh...."

"I wonder if it's actually strong enough to hold us up to sail. We're gonna have to fix that up before we take it to the water, remember? Maybe it's not even built for two people."

The last part came out of his mouth without thinking, and Ford is alarmed with the quick moment of doubt. For a second, their dream seemed a little impossible.

Stan pushes himself up, and runs to the stationed boat.

"Stan? What are you—"

"Keep up, Sixer!" Stan exclaims, grabbing onto the ledge of the boat, and suddenly Ford is running after his brother. All caution thrown out of his system when Stan lifts himself over the edge and on top of the boat's deck effortlessly.

"Stan!"

"Look, Ford, it's fine!" Stan exclaims, arms spread wide and standing victoriously. Ford grabs hold of the ledge, and tries to lift his legs over, only to almost fall off with a "Whoa!"— until Stan's hand latches onto his.

"Hold on," Stan tugs until Ford's body lifts high enough for him to wrap his arms around Ford's shoulders. He grunts, pulling the rest of his twin's body with all his strength before falling onto the deck, Ford landing on top of his legs.

Somehow, they find themselves almost exactly as before, just in reverse, skin still grainy and sticky and hot-red, Ford's chest shaking again but this time it's from panting in the short burst of physical activity. His face close to Stan's, Ford feels a bubbling in his chest, a little tingle all over his skin. One he wants to blame on the summer heat still simmering outside the cave or maybe the sunburn all over his back and torso, but it's not that.

Seventh.

"You're kinda heavy for a stick, Sixer."

Ford punches his shoulder this time, smirking. "Shut up, jerk."

"Now you hate it," Stan comes back smugly, then glances down at the deck. "Hey, look! It can hold the both of us after all!"

Remembering his previous concerns, he looks down on the boat, then raps his knuckles onto the floorboards. It's actually pretty sturdy for how old Ford theorized it to be. That's pretty cool.

"Guess we can cross that out of the stuff we have to fix up," Ford concludes. He pushes his glasses over his nose, thinking deeply again. "Still have a lot of stuff to consider though. Plus, who knows how much bigger we'll get too..." He muses, mostly to himself.

So many to consider... Ford doesn't think even his freakish hands could count all the ways it could go right, or wrong, if it goes anywhere at all... it's kind of big, and open, and Ford thinks it's almost like the ocean itself.

"Eh, don't worry about that stuff so much, Sixer," Stan shrugs, his voice breakjng through Ford's train of thought. Ford realizes he's still very much on Stanley's legs, and maybe it's because all the running, pushing, wrestling they've done all day that completely wrung him out, or maybe it's because the warm bubbling in his chest that overflows and keeps his own legs stuck like sap, but unlike Stan, Ford can't bring himself to move off, move away from Stan. His brown eyes wide, grin with a goofy gap in the teeth and cheeks puffing, Stan looks ready to sail off right then and there.

"As long as you've got me, we can do everything. We're getting out of this place no matter what."

Ford smiles warmly. Somehow he could never get tired doing that around his brother and that's weird. It's nice. His hands find Stan's shoulders, and without thinking, he blurts out:

"Stanley... It wasn't aliens."

"Wait, wha—"

And Ford presses his lips to Stan's. He doesn't really know how to do this. It's kinda gross, with Stan tasting like sand and sweat from rolling around it all day, but so did Ford and getting past that, it just feels good. Almost on instinct, he pulls away panic rising at throat, because Oh no, Stan will think I'm a freak too.

But Stan leans forward too, almost knocking Ford's glasses away and also not knowing what he's doing, but it feels nice. Really, really nice.

Eighth.

Ford thinks he could stay counting those forever.

~~

If you like this send another prompt or a prompt of your own! Hope you liked this anons, be it sufficiently fluffy enough lmao

[deceptive-daydreams]

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 | Ch. 14 |

Smoke Signals

Chapter Twelve - The Holiday Season Begins

W/C: 8.7K

Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader

"I've got my eye on you."

Say Yes To Heaven - L.D.R

A/N: Wow I think this is the longest I've gone without posting a chapter. I really hope you guys enjoy this one. I wrote it in bits and pieces and read it over several times. I would really really really love to know what you think, this one is so special and personal to me.

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Sugary apple goo.

You think back to Thanksgiving back home, a ruckus constant in the kitchen as dinner is prepared, more than enough food to feed an entire village.  Pots and pans clank together, trays create an echo as they are not-so-carefully placed atop the counter.  Dinner rolls are burned but still enjoyed with warm cinnamon butter.  The potatoes are a touch too lumpy but still desirable with notes of rosemary and an ungodly amount of garlic.  Various smells, both sweet and savory flood the house, your poor, stressed out mother churning out dish after dish, siblings all engaged in some kind of ball game out in the street just after watching the Thanksgiving Day parade.  

You tend to the green bean casserole, an easy dish that you couldn’t screw up even with your limited attention span.  Cream of Mushroom soup from a can seemed so repulsive in itself although it brought the whole dish together.  It didn’t matter that seconds prior it slumped against the green beans still in the shape of the can, nearly gelatinous.  Once stirred in and baked with crispy onions layered over the top, it was a masterpiece.  A five star dish in your book.

It would only be a matter of time before grandma showed up with her famously delicious apple pie, the crust coated in extra amounts of grainy sugar, the dish still piping hot.  And the “sugary apple goo” as you used to call it at the age of three already had your mouth watering just thinking about it, crispy apples so fresh and topped with syrupy caramelized sauce topped off with cinnamon and nutmeg, all wrapped up in a flaky, buttery crust.  

You sigh, piling the apple mixture on top of the homemade graham cracker crust.  It wasn’t clear to you just how lonely Thanksgiving morning would be without anyone around.  Sure, you had Donnie’s to look forward to this evening but until then, you were on your own, the parade quietly playing on the TV though you hadn’t been very impressed with the floats this year.  Holiday depression was kicking in, a kind you hadn’t experienced yet.  They were usually always a happy time, family surrounding you and distracting you from the lonesome thoughts you usually had.  This year it started feeling more like a ton of bricks was sitting on your chest, no one able to aid in providing you with some kind of task such as the honor of making the green bean casserole to ease the pressure.

It wasn’t like you couldn’t just make the controversially delicious dish, you had everything stashed in the pantry.  It just didn’t feel right.  It went unnoticed by you that tears were slowly sliding down your cheeks until a fat one landed on your wrist as you finished spooning the apple filling.  

Again?

In that moment you swear you looked the most pitiful you had ever looked in your entire life, tears trailing down your face silently, all alone, homesick.  You should be in your pajamas playing some kind of a board game on the coffee table in the living room, surrounded by your siblings.  Not throwing yourself a pity party while spreading apple goo.  To top it off, your hands had gotten completely covered, the sauce making your fingers undesirably sticky.  You hadn’t quite reached the point of sobs yet though you suppose if you let the goo linger on your hands any longer you would.

Some comforting folk music your grandpa used to play religiously rang through the house though you felt no such comfort.  Not as much as you’d hoped anyway.  It brought a familiar sense of his essence to you, his passing three years ago not settling right in your heart.  It only made you more homesick.

But you weren’t going to let yourself soak in salty tears and sticky apples.  No, you washed your hands in soothing warm water, the sludge sliding right off and into the metal of the sink, eyes puffy and red but void of tears for the time being.  You’d sucked them back and changed the music to something more upbeat, some Elvis that your grandpa had also engrained deeply into your brain though you hoped the faster tempo would brighten your spirits and ignite the happy memories.

Only, it landed you on the couch in a whole new sea of sobs this time as Unchained Melody lingered in the lonely room.  There was no getting a grip on the gut-wrenching, stomach-aching isolation you were feeling, sanity was long gone.  You were supposed to be trimming the dough that was meant to create the criss cross pattern for the pie, you were supposed to be enjoying your glass of wine as you sang under your breath to familiar tunes, you were supposed to be okay.  

It was you, after all, who had made the decision to move, right?  It was you who picked up your entire life and plopped it right in the middle of some unknown mountain town in search of yourself.  You feared that you were just losing yourself instead, forgetting just after a few months what it felt like to be surrounded by loved ones, forgetting how it felt to come home to a full house after a grueling shift at the local Denny’s.  You smelled of burnt coffee and dry eggs, your hair greasier than the literal grease trap, but none of that mattered the second you stepped into the coziness of the living room, all family dysfunction left at the door.

The tears wouldn’t stop though you still managed to force yourself off of the couch, wiping snot away with the back of your hand as you stared at the messy kitchen in despair.  Everything suddenly seemed so…impossible.  How were you meant to do anything while simultaneously questioning your entire existence, your entire meaning of life?

You had been in such disarray that cleaning up as you went didn’t even seem close to an option, nearly every pot and pan either set on top of the stove or thrown in the sink, whisks and spatulas scattered among the mess, and apple skins littering the floor.  Now you were taking in the aftermath, not even having the finished product to show as an excuse for the complete disaster, even the dough still rolled out on the cutting board.  You had hours left to prepare though it felt like seconds ticking by to inevitable disappointment.  

The end of the world felt like it weighed down on your shoulders yet you did what you did best each time.  You set it aside and pressed on.  It was never simple, weak hands grasping the dull knife, slicing through the dough to create uniform strips.  Motivation was running dry, the desire to grace everyone with the most delicious apple pie they’d ever tasted was out the window, you could only do what your body allowed.

And like every other time you had to pull yourself out of the gutter.  Life began to bleed back into your eyes as your creation came back to life.  Puffiness still remained throughout your face, eyes still droopy but slowly your drive kicked back into gear.  Sniffles from previous snotty tears continued but nothing felt better than laying down the last layer of dough over the apple filling, a quest conquered.  

Finishing off your cheap red wine, you reward yourself by licking off the spoon you’d used for the filling.  The kitchen still required a good scrub down but you could live with the mess a little while longer as you indulged in the sweetness.  Something well deserved.  You didn’t even want to think about the nightmare that Christmas was about to become, decorating your tree with only the company of your dreaded thoughts.  That was a scenario you were not willing to wander into, at least not until it would actually happen.  There was no sense in making yourself live through it twice, your brain longing to torture you with irrational possibilities.

Elvis’s voice continues to carry through the living room, a second glass of wine being poured in hopes of easing your homesickness, attempting to neglect thoughts of what you would usually be doing right now.  It was barely working, only leaving you feeling slightly lazy with a good layer of sadness still looming over you like a storm cloud.  There was no extinguishing the sorrows you felt for familiarity and the comfort the holidays were supposed to bring you.

Sudden knocking sends you into a brief panic, unexpected guests were not in the cards for your lonesome morning that had only served to encourage your crybaby tendencies.  At the very least you got a pie out of it.

The knocking persists as you scramble up from your depressing divot on the couch, a certain urgency waving over you at the speed of the knocks.  They were rapid, quick pecks at the wood, a worrisome speed that usually constituted an emergency in the end.  

Why today, why now?

With a heavy sigh, you swing the door open, glass of half-finished wine in one hand while the other runs down your drained face.  You expect some kind of eviction notice; god knows why since you own the place.  Maybe the check hadn’t reached the mortgage company, maybe it had been intercepted in transit.  The last thing you expect on your doorstep is a wide-eyed Eddie cradling a large bowl in one arm.  His gray sweatpants swallow his legs and hang low on his hips, a sliver of his tummy on display in between his t-shirt and pants.

It’s conflicting.  Do you act concerned and start begging the questions:  Did something happen?  Who’s injured?  Or do you exhale in relief as a tiny smile tugs at the corners of his mouth even in his somewhat distressed state?  It can’t be that bad if he still finds it in himself to smile, right?

“I, uh, I need help.”  He says sheepishly.

Ever since the night of the hoedown, he’d been a new kind of shy with you.  You couldn’t lie and say you didn’t adore it because truth be told, big bad Eddie Munson who previously chewed you out for being so bashful was now getting a taste of his own medicine.  Except you had been much kinder than he initially was, though it was fun to tease him and force his face to turn a vibrant tomato red.  

“Help?”  You smirk, swirling your wine as if you were some kind of connoisseur.  “My, my, how the tables have turned.”

“Bambi.”  He groans, still maintaining focused eye contact with the wood planks of your porch.

“Eddie.”  

It’s said so softly, in a way that reduces him to a puddle, his knees could give out at any moment if you so much as looked at him a certain way which had been why he refused to catch your gaze.  He internally curses himself for automatically counting under his breath, unable to stop himself: one, two, three, one, two, three.

In an instant your face falls, he only ever counted when he was stressed from what you could gather.  It was a learning curve, navigating Eddie’s quirks.

“Hey.”  You soothe, gingerly grabbing his wrist with your free hand.  “Hey, what’s wrong?”  

His curls bounce with a shake of his head, his eyes fluttering shut.  The counting stops but he still comes across as fuzzy.  Disoriented.  

“Come inside.”  You whisper, gently tugging him through the door, your wine abandoned at the entry table in the process.  “It’s freezing out.”

Instinctually he hands you the bowl he’d been cradling close to his body with a wooden spoon sticking out.  Upon further inspection, a mountain of mashed potatoes-or should you say lumps of potatoes are piled up within the bowl.  The skins are still intact, way too many if he intended to make smooth and creamy potatoes.  They’d be much less than enjoyable in the state they were currently in.

“I fucked them up.”  He whispers.

The sight you’re met with is that of a small child in a grown man’s body, his large eyes pleading.  You’re forced to realize that today may very well be much worse for him than it is for you.  He’d warned you that he didn’t do holidays and here he was, a nervous wreck turning up on your doorstep in a panic with lumpy potatoes.  And suddenly you felt so selfish.

“That’s okay.”  You assure him, tracing a tender thumb over his bicep.  He looked so lost.  “Eddie, it’s okay.”  You repeat with a nod.

“I just, I was gonna buy something from the store, and then, I just thought–I dunno maybe I’d at least try.”  He tugs on his curls, a bit too harshly for your liking.  “I don’t know why I even tried.”  He sighs in defeat.

It’s enough to break your heart.

“Eddie.”  

Turmoil flashes in his eyes, stress apparent in the way his brows furrow and his frown lines grow deeper.  His lips are red, most likely bitten, and he can’t stop twisting one of his rings around his finger.  He looks to be as much of a wreck as you felt although the symptoms seem to be much more apparent in his appearance than yours.  Your slightly swollen eyes were nothing compared to his tousled curls, anxieties littered across his face and trembling hands unable to be subtly hidden without the crutch of sleeves.

“I, uh, I-I shouldn’t have bothered.”  He mutters, reaching for the door.

You intercept him, your hand wrapping around his elbow while you attempt to meet his eyes.  He freezes in his escape, your touch rendering him paralyzed, your fingers suddenly too determined in digging into the meat of his arm.  Not meanly.  Never meanly.  More concerned.  Concerned for the way he cowers away the second he’s offered any fraction of help.  Perhaps it’s hypocritical of you to regard him with such worry when you yourself present the same behaviors under the same circumstances and expect no such treatment.

Your expression offers a certain softness that he’s come across one too many times since you’d barged into his life and taken his heart hostage.  You’d never know you committed such a crime.  And he’d never outright tell you of the ache that sat deep in his chest that he had no clue how to satiate.  All he knew was that he could not jeopardize this.  If he could get through the holidays, if he could get to January and you were still around, then, and only then would he be convinced that he had finally lifted whatever fucked up, out-of-this-world curse that had haunted him all his life.

“It’s okay.”  Barely above a whisper, you assure him.

Eddie doesn’t remember making his way into your kitchen, he can’t recall your delicate hand pulling him along until you let go to discard his potato concoction onto the counter and he realizes he’s taken the warmth for granted in a haze of existential dread.  Like a lost puppy, he stares at your fingertips as they linger on the counter while you lean over to reach for an empty casserole dish.  The entirety of your kitchen cabinets had thrown up all over the counters, a reflection of the way his brain felt.  Scattered.  

“Potatoes are actually super complicated.”  

His ears perk up, unsure of how to conjure up a response.  Instead, he raises his eyebrows, fearful of how dumb he could make himself look with just a few syllables.  It wasn’t like him to care so deeply what others thought of him.

“That’s why I avoid them.  Instead–”  You turn around only to pull out a can of green beans and a can of cream of mushroom.  “-work smarter, not harder.”

Eddie knows he should be hanging onto every word you say and usually he would be, he knows.  Except he can’t help but tune into the melody of Blue Christmas that had been echoing off the kitchen walls from your record player across the room.

The damn record player.  And the records.

He didn’t realize how much the records still affected him.  He had his own collection now, sure.  But anything that resembled the essence of his Mama, lived safely and soundly on its dedicated shelf in his room, untouched.  It took him years to rebuild Mama’s collection.

“Sorry can we-”  He makes his way toward the record player, his face contorted nearly painfully before lifting the needle.  “I just-I can’t think.”

Your motions were paused, can opener halfway through the can of beans as your eyes meet him with questions splayed across your face.  You don’t ask them.  An understanding smile works its way across your lips and god, he doesn’t know why you’re so patient with him after he stepped into your house and suddenly had the uncontrollable urge to shut off your music.  As he strides back into the kitchen, a series of apologies haven't even left his mouth and yet-

“So…Green Bean Casserole.”  You state, fingers tapping against the tin of each can.  “And Sugary Apple Goo.”  A vague gesture toward the uncooked pie.  “Kind of a…weird duo.  Or it will be if I actually get it in the oven-”

“Sorry, what?”  

“Apple pie.  The apple pie.  At home we just call it sugary apple goo, don’t ask why it’s just–it’s just a thing we do.”  You clarify, shoving the dessert into the comforting warmth of the oven, shivering at the sensation as goosebumps begin to prick your skin.

“Apple goo.”  He repeats.  A raised brow disappearing beyond his messy bangs.

Eddie almost forgets the reason why he’d been in such disarray, almost forgets why he even bothered knocking on your door in the first place, only remembers the fact that he was in a panicked state.

“Yeah.”  You sigh.

You busy yourself with slopping the now drained green beans into a nearby glass bowl.  Your blotchy skin and puffy eyes catch in the stream of sunlight, the kitchen window betraying you as it showcases your true state.  Avoiding those large brown eyes is the best you can do, the theory that if you can’t see him he can’t see you dumbly being put to use no matter how aware you are that it makes no sense.  Maybe if you act “okay enough”, he’ll chalk it up to the common cold, placing the responsibility for your rudolph-like nose on the yearly infection.

What you fail to realize is that by this point, he’s become too familiar with your teary eyes and sad worry lines that only seemed prominent in your times of distress.  Times that he had regretfully been the cause of previously.  Words can’t escape his practically sewn-shut-mouth, all sounds dying long before forming on his tongue.  It’s impossible to create comfort when he himself has trouble doing so for himself.  How could he possibly offer such comfort to someone who deserved kinder words from someone of a higher regard?

“Here, dump this in and mix.”  You instruct, forcing a can of cream of mushroom and a wooden spoon in his hands, yanking him out of his mind.

There’s no room for protest, not that he even intended to.  Not when you’re standing there with the ghost of tear tracks down your cheeks.  Not when you’re this kind.  Not when you’re you.  

“Okay.”  He mutters, a disgusting sound filling his ears from the lumpy soup falling into the bowl.

“After that, pour it in here.”  You place a ceramic casserole dish to his right, the dish nearly too large to fit on the cluttered counter though you’re too occupied with tidying up other parts of the kitchen to bother.

“Got it.”

Eddie Munson absolutely hates Thanksgiving.  But he doesn’t mind it so much when you’re rustling around behind him, a silent conversation hanging in the air that neither of you are alone in your holiday sorrows, whatever they may be.

You don’t ask why he continues counting under his breath behind you or why his hands are shaking.

And he doesn’t ask why tears linger in your eyes or why you pause to regain your composure after dropping a pan a bit too loudly for your liking, your lip wobbling.

Because the collective understanding is that neither of you is okay.  And maybe that’s okay.

–

“Careful, the bottom is–”

“Shit!”

“-hot.”

A ringed hand waves around in an effort to rid it of the burning sensation caused by the bottom of the piping hot casserole dish.  Eddie releases a series of curses, the side of the dish pushed against his chest as he balances it between his body and his single arm protected by one of your generously donated dish rags.  Your wide eyes caution him in his balancing act, a perfectly crafted green bean casserole at risk due to his negligence as he had taken the liberty of knocking on the door.

“What the fuck, how can fuckin’ beans be so goddamn hot?”  Brown eyes nearly roll into the back of his head, his fingertips more than likely singed an angry red.

It’s no laughing matter, not according to the scowl that makes its way across his handsome features but you can’t stop the pull of your lips from forming a large grin, giggles caught in the back of your throat.  His irritation disappears just as quickly as it came, harsh edges blurring into softness at the sight of your puffed out cheeks, inflated due to the humor just dying to crawl out of your mouth.

“Oh, shut up.”  A nudge of his shoulder against yours has you shaking your head, laughter finally escaping your perfectly glossed lips.

He could write paragraphs about them if it didn’t seem so creepy and stalkerish.  So he allowed himself the tiniest of glances, only hoping to paint the full picture in his head ever since you’d quickly puckered your lips in front of your mirror at home to complete your finishing touches while he viewed from the porch where he waited in his black button up and nicest pair of jeans.  He’d never been so jealous over a tube of lipgloss.  In fact, he’d never in his life been jealous of a tube of lipgloss and he never felt like more of a loser than in that moment.

“I told you.”  You mutter, an endearing side eye delivered right into his line of sight.  It was something almost child-like, something innocent and not at all like what he’d ever really been on the receiving end of.  Maybe because there was a certain flirtiness you were hinting at although he was no expert and had no right to assume.

“I told you.”  He mumbles back with a higher pitch, mocking you.

You turn toward him, a comeback on the tip of your tongue when his own tongue interrupts with a taunt, peeking out between his lips swiftly, his nose scrunching up meanly before his full attention is back on the door as it creaks open.  And then, a quick wink that only you yourself were a witness to, only creating a stir in your brain as you decipher that no one else would be able to confirm the action.

“Hey!”  Donnie greets, arms flung up in excitement as she ushers you into her welcoming home, smells infiltrating your nose, sweet and savory galore.

Before either you or Eddie can even get a simple “hello” in, she��s talking your ear off, something about who all is already in the living room, how far along the turkey is, where the bathroom is, all while guiding you into the spacious dining room.  She must have set out her fine china, the gorgeous dishes set all around the table lined with champagne colored silver on the edges of the plates.  Two tables had been pushed together, creating enough space for the large number of guests expected.  In the center sat an exquisite arrangement of various orange-hued flowers and some greenery.  

The house was comforting; not too large and not too small, a two story dream that no doubt had acres of backyard.  The Christmas tree had already been set up and decorated, the branches and lights hinting at you from the other room where men roared with laughter, a football game blaring from the TV that contrasted with the familiar voice of Frank Sinatra coming from the stereo.  Combined turkey and Santa decorations adorned the interior everywhere you glanced, surfaces that would usually be empty year around were occupied with tacky little figurines that were more endearing than anything.  Plastic garland traced the rails of the stairs, littered in fake plastic cranberries, the front room being far more grand than your entire home as you inspected it through the archway of the dining room.

Suddenly your nerves were simmering down, a familiar feeling nestling into the bottom of your chest as your shoulders fell from their tensed position, your fingers letting up on their grip on the pie tin you clutched so desperately.  Women squealed from the kitchen, a series of “oh my god”s erupting into the rest of the house, some kind of juicy gossip initiating several gasps as well as some laughter.  Your homesickness began to lie dormant, warmth overtaking you as Donnie went on and on about her family members, which ones to avoid sitting next to at all costs and warning you of the aunties that would corner you and beg for details on your love life.

“Just pretend I’m calling you and run as fast as you can in the other direction.”  She advises.  “And if that doesn’t work, tell ‘em you had too much wine and that it’s making a reappearance.  They’ll scatter like flies.”

You laugh along, taking mental notes as she grabs the pie from you, complimenting the smell as she sets it among several other desserts, a whole table dedicated only to sweets.  When she goes to grab the green bean casserole from Eddie, you can’t help but pause and watch as his doe eyes trace his surroundings, a clearly unfamiliar environment to him.  There’s uncertainty dripping from his demeanor, his single finger tapping against the dish:  One, two, three.  One, two, three.  One, two, three.

“Green bean casserole-Eddie, do you know how many green bean casserole we’ve got?  Like you all read each other’s mind, I swear.”  Donnie jokes.

“It’s-um, it’s hot.”  He cautions her.

Sauntering toward the main table, Donnie proudly sets it on top of a place mat to protect the wood from the heat.  Eddie doesn’t budge, seemingly glued to the carpet, his hands still lingering in the air like he had still been holding the dish.

“You okay?”  You mouth to him, looking up into his worried eyes, only hoping to soothe the crease in between his eyebrows.

He nods though you suspect he’s being a bit dishonest.  

“Oh, c’mon Eddie!  You know I’m just pullin’ your leg.”  Donnie reassures, a heavy hand falling against his shoulder.  “Shoot, I have to go check on the oven.  Yell for me if you need anything, both of you, okay?”  

“Sure.”  You mumble.  “Thank you.”

“There’s a fully stocked bar right over there, help yourselves.”  She calls as she backs herself up toward the kitchen.  “But don’t go too crazy.”  She sends a knowing glance, recalling both of your tendencies to take on more than you can handle.

“Why don’t we get some air?”  You suggest, unable to comprehend exactly just what was happening in Eddie’s mind although you knew enough to understand that he was miles outside of his comfort zone.

“No, no.  I’m good.”  A cleared throat doesn’t reassure you enough but you let it go for the time being.  Prying wasn’t going to help.  “”M gonna get a beer.”  He murmurs, chain jingling from his belt as he makes his way toward what you can only assume is the kitchen where Donnie had just disappeared to.

As pathetic as it seemed, you weren’t going to allow yourself to wander around alone, vulnerable to various conversations trapping you in small talk with strangers: an absolute nightmare.  Timidly, you follow behind Eddie at a safe distance, holding your breath as you take in the new room full of busy women and many glasses of wine.  The smell of gravy heavily lingers, a tinge of the sourly sweet alcohol peeking through as you release your breath and inhale finally.  

And then-they were all over him.  Sweet older women, ranging from around fifty plus years, all doting on him, cooing at him while complimenting how tall he is and his handsome features.  It only forces you to lean your hip against the counter and take in the most captivating scene you’d ever witnessed.  His cheeks redden, his entire face matching shortly after as he nods in response, small “thank you”s sneaking past his lips with a sheepish grin threatening to spread across his face, dimples prominent.  It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with the attention, has no recognition of the power he currently holds.

“Is this one yours?!”  One woman shrieks, taking your hands in her bony ones.

“Oh-”

“You’re so lucky, he’s such a looker!”  Another chimes in.

“We’re not-”

“You better hope he holds onto all that hair throughout the years.”  A third nods.

Eddie’s face has never been redder, crimson painting his usually pale skin, a beer pinched in between his fingers as he avoids every single eye in the room.  You can only imagine the look on your own face, maybe slightly mortified with a hint of pink pulling at your cheeks due to the unnecessary attention.

“Alright, alright.”  Donnie interjects.  “Enough, you’re gonna scare ‘em away before they’ve even had a bite to eat!”  She waves her hands around, dramatics on full display as she shoos them away like pigeons.

“Thank you.”  You whisper, eyes large and surprised.

“Run, run.”  Donnie displays wide eyes, gently shoving you both out of the kitchen.

–

Throughout the evening, you kept Eddie in your peripheral.  Sure, he was grown and fully capable of taking care of himself but it didn’t worry you any less when holidays weren’t necessarily his favorite thing.  Anxieties lurked in the back of your mind the second he started counting earlier, never once fading away no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself that he was fine, now bantering back and forth with Sam.

“That Steve kid really can’t dance.”  Nathan laughs, pulling you back into the initial conversation you were having, perched on the couch with a glass of wine set in front of you on the coffee table courtesy of Donnie’s excellent hosting skills.

“Well that’s why he excused himself off the dancefloor.”  You softly smile, earning another hearty laugh from the man.

“Hey, but Eddie’s no better.”  He jokes, taking a swig of his beer.  “Looked like a damn giraffe stumbling over his own legs.”

“I wasn’t very coordinated either!”  You defend.  “We were a hot mess.”  You bury your face in your hands.

“Yeah, I bet Eddie thought you were hot.”

The recliner adjacent to you creaks beneath Jett as he makes himself comfortable, slouching with a beer in his hand.

“Whoa.”  Nathan leans forward, ready to reprimand him.  “What-”

“That’s okay.”  You speak softly, your hand covering the older man’s as an act of keeping the peace, something you did best.  Several seconds of contemplation and a glance across the room toward Eddie change your mind.  

“Actually-it’s not.”  You turn your body toward Jett, a man–child before your eyes that refused to even look at you after his comment.  Your hands shake and your cheeks heat with embarrassment, chalking your sudden confidence up to the glass and a half of wine you indulged in.  

“What?”  Jett furrows his brows, examining his beer far too aggressively as a means to avoid you.

“It’s not okay.”  You whisper, a wimpy excuse of a defense.

“What’s gotten into you, boy?”  Nathan scolds through gritted teeth.

Jett’s nearly-black eyes resemble something opposite in comparison to the warmth in those across the room currently harboring a twinkle in an engaged conversation.  The boy is unable to get a word in as you quietly begin to address him.

“Look, I’m sorry if I did something wrong.”  You regret the tremble in your tone, confrontation was well out of your comfort zone, especially with someone who had been so hostile for no reason.  It wasn’t in your DNA to be the “bad guy” even when it would benefit your wellbeing.

Something in your words softens Jett’s eyes, pulls a piece of him back into reality.  You weren’t terrorizing him and he couldn’t seem to grasp that ever since that night you had argued with Eddie behind the bar.  And you hadn’t spoken a word out of line but you weren’t clueless.  Clearly he had an agenda against you and Eddie, it never left your mind since Eddie mentioned that Jett got all over-protective suddenly that night and took it out on him.  But what could you do when all he did was puff out his chest rather than have a decent conversation?  His frayed emotions were not your responsibility, you owed him nothing if he was going to insist on acting like a toddler in adult situations.  You suppose some of it could be due to his lack of years behind yourself and Eddie, Jett still a teenager, almost twenty whereas you had been in your twenties for a few years now.  It wasn’t an excuse, just your brain attempting to work out his logic.

“You didn’t–you didn’t do anything wrong.”  He sighs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

You don’t offer any words.  Only an expectant look.  Expecting of some kind of explanation as to why he’d been acting so cruel.  And as if the universe decided you didn’t live in enough anguish with your homesickness that morning paired with the current unwanted confrontation, Eddie’s eyes met yours for a brief moment before darting away, a deep sigh and suddenly slouching shoulders clearly indicating some kind of defeat before he quietly stepped out of the room.

“Can we get into this another time?”

You don’t wait for a response, excusing yourself to slip out of the room and follow the trail of cold out the front door, the chill seeping into your bones as your cradle your arms close to yourself.  The porch is spacious, something you hadn’t taken notice of earlier when arriving.  To your left, Eddie sits on a wooden bench with the family name “Scott” carved into it.  A cigarette takes its place between his fingers, his lighter flickering while he lets out a frustrated groan.  He places the stick between his lips and cups the flame to hide it from the wind, finally succeeding in lighting it, puffs of smoke escaping through the corners of his mouth.

“I’m not fragile, Bambi.  Stop following me around.”  He mutters, pulling the cigarette from his lips.  There’s no malice detected in his words, just something lacking hope as he stares straight ahead.

Carefully, you sit at the very edge of the bench, your skirt a tad too short to allow you to fully sit back due to the cold surface.  You catch a wave of his warmth as he rests his arm on his thigh.  It hurts, how far away he feels even being inches from you; his mind might as well be on Jupiter.  A momentary glance over at you causes him to sigh deeply, his head dipping down while he shakes it in disappointment.

“And dammit!”  Eddie snaps, face twitching in aggravation.  “I don’t have a jacket for you this time.  Learn how to dress for the cold.”  He gestures to your posture, your arms wrapped around your middle in an attempt to savor any warmth, and your jaw clenched shut as a means to keep your teeth from chattering though you can’t seem to contain the shivers nearly rattling your bones.

“I don’t need one.”

He scoffs, disbelief evident in his movements, a fidgeting hand reaching up to scratch the barely-there stubble at his jaw.  

“I don’t!”  You lie.

You were never one to willingly be dishonest but a little white lie in this case didn’t seem like the end of the world.  Not when Eddie’s fragile state of mind seemed to gnaw away at him.  You wouldn’t leave him out for the wolves to feed on him; wolves being his never ending thoughts that always without fail, won him over and forced him to crawl back into his comfort zone of isolation.  You suppose you weren’t so innocent either, always succumbing to the very same habits.

“Go back inside.”  A flick of his cigarette ash towards the ground ignites in the thin layer of snow barely coating the porch before extinguishing.

You can’t help the furrow in your brows, staring at him as if to figure him out, attempting to glance into his large coffee colored irises, to no avail.  His shiny eyes dodge your attempts, the windows of his soul closed off, even from you.  Not that you were immediately entitled, though you figure with each trauma he had shared with you, he’d at least be able to look you in the eye.

“Come with me.”  You chirp.  “We’ll taste all the wines.  C’mon, and then we’ll be nice and hungry.  Drunk eating is the best.”  You extend a hand out toward him, your freshly painted nails perfectly imperfect in his peripheral.

“I’m not in the mood, Bambi.”

His gravelly voice has a certain effect on you, one you find not appropriate to dissect right now.  He lifts the cigarette back up to his lips, the chance to take one more drag stolen from him as you pluck it from his fingers, tossing it into the snow without regret, stomping your foot on it for good measure.

“Well, get in the mood.  Let’s go.”  

Boldly, you tug at his arm, unable to move him by yourself, you know.  But he willingly melts into your touch, allowing you to pull him up despite his protesting frown.  Though he follows you to stand, he doesn’t budge much further than that as you try to drag him back into the cozy warmth of the house.  The rounded tip of his nose glows red, the threat of a cold only pushing you to tug on his sleeve with no success in ushering him inside.

“I think ‘m just gonna head home.  You think someone else could give you a ride back?”  The question is hesitant, no longer wanting to participate in the festivities but still concerned for your well-being, especially if you were going to continue to drink.  

Your track record with alcohol wasn’t exactly great and he’d never forgive himself if something happened and he wasn’t there just because the sight of you talking to Jett had left a bad taste in his mouth.  But he couldn’t stand it any longer, watching you act so graceful all the time, especially to someone you didn’t particularly like, and then having to pretend that a simple kiss on the cheek didn’t absolutely wreck him.  A kiss that you hadn’t since mentioned, and he wasn’t going to humiliate himself by insinuating that you wanted him in that way.  No one wanted him in that way.

“What?”  You breathe, face shifting into a sadness Eddie wanted to kick himself for.  “No, you can’t go–”

“I’m sure Jett is ready and willing to entertain you.”

Low blow.  He could always count on himself to deliver a low blow at the worst of times.

Eddie knew now that you had a distaste for Jett, he knew that.  And yet he was stupid enough to continue using Jett as ammo against you for no reason other than his own insecurity.  If he continued to push you away then it wouldn’t hurt so bad when you realized he was scum of the earth.  Trailer trash.  A nobody.  That’s what he kept telling himself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  You fume, crossing your arms.

“I don’t know, Bambi.  You tell me cause I can’t figure you out.”

The use of his nickname for you stitched together with words of anguish only further confused you.  You couldn’t seem to win.

“Can’t–can’t figure me out?!”  You widen your eyes at him, only hoping to convey how ridiculous of a statement it is.  “Can’t figure me out.  What about you?!  You’re the one no one can figure out!”  

You’re on the verge of whining, begging in a sense.  Pleading with the most stubborn man in the world and god only knows what you’ll do if he doesn’t stand down.

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”  He states simply, monotone.  It makes you want to yank your hair out by the roots and offer it to him, asking him if it’s enough.  If it’s enough to shut up the voices in his head.

“Yeah?  Because you don’t wanna let people in?!”  Uncharacteristically, you jab a finger into his chest, frustration making itself known across your face and you only know because his eyes ever so slightly soften.  “Eddie, all you do is give me mixed signals!  How many times do I have to tell you I want nothing to do with Jett?!  What do I have to do to get that through your thick fucking head?!”  He tries to get a word in but you don’t give him an opportunity.  “No, seriously!  I need an instruction manual or something because I’m trying!  I have been trying-”

“-I didn’t ask you to!”  He finally interrupts, sorrow filling his eyes.

With a deep breath, you calm your heaving chest.  It’s apparent you’re no longer cold, your skin hot from working yourself up.  Steam may as well be coming from your ears though it wasn’t your intention to get so irritated with him.  

“I wanted to.  I want to.”  Your voice comes out softer, a gentler approach to his sudden internal conflict.

“No.”

Turning away, he doesn’t quite move to leave but there’s no mistaking the fact that he’s trying to shut you out.  He’s trying to escape like some kind of feral animal but you refuse to give in.  You refuse to let him.  

“Yes.  Eddie–look at me!”  You demand with a small pull of his arm.

“No.”

He goes to turn his body even further away from you but the firm hold you have on his bicep stops him.  He keeps his gaze on the floorboards below, his nose twitching and eyes burning with the threat of tears.  You only know because you’re all too familiar with the mandatory frown that comes with holding them back.

“Stop doing that.  Please.”  You beg.

“I can’t be here right now–”

“What makes you think I can?”

He’s silent.  The world instantly feels so quiet, tiny snow flurries fluttering around you, making you feel as if you’re the only two people on Earth.  Echoes of the celebrating and hollering inside are faint although they don’t do much to pop the bubble you find yourselves in.  Then he breaks the silence, daring to plead with you this time.

“Bambi, please.”  He croaks.

Your initial thought is, please what?  You’d been pleading with him back and forth for god knows how many minutes straight and here he was doing it right back to you.  And for what?  It wasn’t a good enough plea, not for you.  You weren’t ready to let it go, if you even knew what “it” was.

“No, you’re coming inside and you don’t have to associate with me if you don’t want to but you’re coming inside.”

Your demand only seems to irritate him, his brows knitting together while he pinches the bridge of his nose in between his fingers.  If he was agitated then you were about to become enraged.  And that is not something you wanted.  You never wanted to display that kind of emotion toward him but he was practically pulling it out of you and you had to fight against it.  No one had ever been able to pull such a reaction out of you, not ever.  Even if you had gotten pretty close, you swallowed it down and hid it.

“Why?!”  Eddie seethes.

His outburst takes you back, though with the aggravation boiling within you, you were able to contain any reaction he was seeking, if any.  That wasn’t the case for long though as you then launch yourself into another tantrum after staring for a second too long at his snarled lip.

“Because believe it or not, I care, Eddie!”  You practically wail, your voice becoming hoarse.  “If you leave I’m coming with you because I’m not leaving you alone.  Not on Thanksgiving.”  Your head shakes in denial.

Against your own will, a single tear trails down your cheek and the moment you feel it, you’re rapidly wiping it away, hoping he never even saw it when you knew damn well his umber eyes followed it all the way down your face.  He only pulls his gaze away.

“I’m leaving.  You’re staying here.”  He decides, regret etched into his features.

In a final attempt to escape your grasp, he succeeds, feeling your fingertips linger for one last second before drifting away as he turns and makes his way down the porch steps, wood protesting beneath him.  The noise is the only proof you have that he’s actually leaving, that he actually feels he’s not worthy enough to stay.  

You refuse to give up so easily.

Your feet are already on a mission, nearly sprinting down the stairs even with the threat of slipping on the minimal amount of ice beginning to freeze over.  Eddie pays no mind to the fast paced footsteps crunching against the gravel behind him, making his way over to Sugar with his head hung low.  Your heart is racing, not just because you suddenly decided to sprint a few yards but because a healthy dose of dopamine has started coursing throughout your body, a good amount of anxiety accompanying it but not deferring you any longer.

Eddie makes it to Sugar, his hand reaching for the door only for it to be forced shut with a self-manicured hand.  If he didn’t know who the hand belonged to he’d be chewing the owner out for daring to touch his beloved truck.  Instead he rolls his eyes and turns as he prepares to reprimand you in a much more gentle manner than he would anyone else.

Except he doesn’t even have the chance when your lips are suddenly pressed to the corner of his mouth, your body pushing him against Sugar.  His hands freeze mid air, his eyes wide open.  Your hands are resting on his chest and–he can’t breathe.  You pull away, inches from him and he can’t breathe, he can’t speak, he can’t move.  As far as he’s concerned he isn’t even human anymore.  

“Stay.”  You whisper, your breath fanning over slightly chapped lips.

His lips won’t stop tingling, he can’t grasp the concept of what just occurred.  He refuses to even touch you for fear that you might disappear right before him.  Hell, he’s not even sure he’s allowed to.

It’s difficult to gauge his reaction, his heavy breath lingering with the smell of his cigarette that would probably gross you out had it been anyone else but for some reason, because it’s him, you don’t mind very much.  You must smell strongly of wine which isn’t always pleasant so you figure you’re even.

“Please stay.”   You repeat, nudging your nose into his.

It’s like he’s in a trance, his eyelids becoming lazy and his body relaxing when you reach up to trace your thumb ever so slightly over his jaw.  His forehead rests against yours, his eyes squeezing shut, and you can hear a gulp in his throat.  With his eyes still shut, he nods and before you can process it, he launches himself into your arms in a tight embrace, wrapping himself around you, his face buried in your neck.  A wetness catches against your skin catches your attention, Eddie’s body heaving slightly and you just know.

You know that the tear stains on your skin mean more to him than you could ever imagine.

Slowly, your fingers tangle in his hair, threading into the curls at the nape of his neck to lightly scratch his scalp soothingly.  The way he grips onto you tighter, his body shaking, only confirms that physical touch and affection was not a luxury he was allowed in his lifetime.  If he let you, you’d spend thousands of hours holding him, even in the cold.  Whatever he needed.

But the snow flurries began to grow larger and the wind started to pick up.  And you’d be damned if you allowed yourself and Eddie to catch a nasty cold when you could be doing the same thing inside next to the fire.  Though, as you thought about it, Eddie would probably shy away from your touch in front of everyone.  And that didn’t anger you in the way it normally would.  Because you couldn’t blame him, someone so touch starved that he began to sob the second he was willingly kissed and told he was wanted, for shying away from showers of physical affection in front of peers that only know him to be big, bad, Eddie Munson.  It would be too much of a change and you weren’t willing to force that upon him.

So as the cold grew more unforgiving, you continued to hold him.  He would be the one to decide when he felt he wanted to part from you.  And if you both got sick, so be it.  A stupid cold would be worth the price if you were able to provide him the touch he went so long without and so badly craved, even if he didn’t quite know it at first.

Eddie parted from you far sooner than anticipated.  His cheeks were rosy, his rounded nose matching, endearingly so.  His eyelashes were dotted with a few lingering tears, his eyes rimmed with red but sadness was absent from his features.  Instead there was a fondness dripping from his expression and though he parted from the embrace to gaze down at you, he still clung to you like his life depended on it. 

“Can I–can I kiss you?”  He whispers shakily.

You want to laugh, only because he’s acting as if you didn’t kiss him in the first place.  But you bury it deep down and only let a smile blossom.  

“Please.”  You whisper back.

This time, you’re more than happy to beg.  

Hesitantly, his shaky hand cups your jaw, the warmth from his skin more than welcome as he gently slots his lips against yours.  He’s slow with it, taking his time.  As you move in rhythm with him, you encourage him, moving his arms to circle your waist, pressing yourself closer and letting your hands travel up his chest to lock behind his neck.  

“I can’t stop.”  He laughs quietly, continuously pecking your lips like he can’t get enough.

“Don’t.”  You giggle into his mouth.

Teeth clash against teeth and though he hasn’t quite graduated to using tongue yet, you have the urge to introduce him.  Before you can pass your tongue along his plump bottom lip, he curses under his breath as he pulls away, only causing worry to spread across your face.

“You’re freezing.”  His hands rub up and down your arms to somewhat heat you up and only then do you realize your face feels completely numb.

“No, I’m fine.”  You protest against your better judgment.  It wasn’t exactly fitting to be in tights while one of the first snow falls of the year ensued.

“You’ll be a popsicle in like three seconds.”

Eddie softly smiles, reaching for your hand and tugging you with him toward the house.  A whine escapes you, a pathetic whimper but you manage to shuffle yourself along with him.  Before entering the realm of reality beyond the front door, Eddie turns to you, stars in his eyes, something glimmering.

“How’s my nose?  Snotty?”  He grins, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

~end~

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[daisyishedwig]

I have absolutely no excuse for the fact that my "Six Sentence Sunday" is fully 1,000 words long, other than that I wrote this scene in like thirty minutes and I love it and just want to share it all. Also, because this is a part of a sequel to a fic that I have barely started writing, by the time I post this for real, you all should have forgotten it existed

Anyway, enjoy some Hevans angst with a side of pining Blaine. Below a cut because, like I said, it's long.

When Blaine opens the door, it’s to Kurt thrusting a red and white jacket into his arms. “I need you to take this,” he says, and then rushes back to his car to collect a box, “and all of this.” He drops it in Blaine’s entryway and then shuffles quickly backwards like he’s scared it’s going to attack him.

Blaine gapes for a second and looks down at the jacket in his hands. He sees a large E and V on the back and carefully shakes it out until he can see the name Evans emblazoned on the back. Kurt bites his lip and a distressed whimper makes it’s way out. Blaine immediately rushes forward to comfort him, but Kurt shies away.

“Kurt,” Blaine says softly, “what happened?”

Kurt hugs himself and takes in a shaky breath. “I broke up with Sam.”

Blaine’s heart flutters in excitement and then promptly sinks into his stomach with guilt. Kurt’s heartbroken, and that’s easy to see, just because this means Blaine actually has a shot with him does not mean he should be glad for Kurt’s pain.

Blaine drops the jacket in the box and then goes to Kurt, wrapping him in as big of a hug as he can when he’s two inches shorter than him, standing on his tiptoes to do it. Kurt clutches at his back and sobs into his shoulder.

“What’d he do?” Blaine coos, rubbing soothing circles up and down Kurt’s spine.

“He didn’t do anything,” Kurt hiccups, “he’s perfect, like he always is. He’s kind, and he’s caring, and he’s understanding, and he’s beautiful, and I love him.”

Blaine’s heart clenches and he pulls away, settling his heels on the ground as he grasps Kurt’s biceps to push him back a step so he can look him in the eye. “I’m confused,” he says after a moment of studying Kurt’s face trying to piece it it all together.

Kurt rubs the back of his hand under his nose and Blaine pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket to give him. Kurt laughs for a second before his face crumples again. “He’s not coming back from Kentucky,” he says, “at least not before school starts. He doesn’t know when or if he’s gonna come back to Lima, and he’s hopeful he’ll be back here next year, but I’ll be in New York next year, so we still won’t be together, and who knows if he’ll want to come to New York when he graduates or if we’ll be stuck in the long-distance relationship forever, and what if I just want my boyfriend to be near me, okay?” Kurt rushes this all out in one breath and then takes a second, breathing heaving.

“Is that selfish?” he asks after a moment. “Am I terrible for calling it quits instead of sticking it out as it slowly breaks me?”

“No,” Blaine reassures, reaching up to cup Kurt’s cheek, “of course you’re not. And if Sam said you are–”

“But he didn’t!” Kurt cries, his bottom lip quivering. “He didn’t object at all, he just sat there, staring at me through a grainy web cam, all stoic and sad, and said ‘if that’s what’s best for you,’ didn’t even try to fight me on it!”

Blaine frowns. “So… you amicably broke up, because you wanted to, but you’re mad at him for not fighting with you over it?”

“Yes!” Kurt says throwing his hands in the air and knocking Blaine’s hands away from him. Blaine takes a startled step back as Kurt finally moves from his entry way and stomps angrily up the stairs to Blaine’s bedroom. Blaine follows and he swears Kurt waits for him to enter the room before he throws himself dramatically on the bed.

“If he doesn’t fight me on it, how do I know he even cared?!”

Blaine slumps in his desk chair, fighting back the fond smile he can feel creeping onto his face. “He could probably ask the same thing about you.”

Kurt sits up and glares at him. “So now you’re taking his side?”

Blaine holds up his hands in defense. “I’m not taking his side, I’m just pointing out that you’re… being a little hypocritical.”

Kurt huffs and collapses back on the bed, folding his arms over his chest. “Isn’t he supposed to like, try? Posit some grand gesture about how he’ll find a way back here, come hell or high water?”

“He’s sixteen, Kurt. We’re teenagers, we are held to the whims of our parents', and currently, his parents are in Kentucky, and would like him to be there with them.”

“You’re not subject to your parents' whims,” Kurt grumbles.

Blaine snorts. “My parents' whims are to leave me home alone, ‘house-sitting’,” Blaine makes air quotes, “while they spend the summer in Scotland. I’d, for one, love to be living in Kentucky with parents and siblings who remember I exist.”

Blaine watches Kurt deflate as his arms fall away from his chest and he fully starfishes on the bed. “But then you wouldn’t be here for me to complain to,” Kurt says and Blaine can still hear a slight pout in his voice.

Blaine sighs and stands up, crossing the room to kneel beside the bed. He takes the hand closest to him in both of his and holds it, staring at Kurt with the biggest puppy-dog eyes until he rolls his head to the side to look at him.

“And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Blaine says, and kisses Kurt’s knuckles, glad to be rewarded with a small, if sad, smile. “You pick out what movie you want to cry to while I go hide the ‘Sam box’ away from you, okay? I’ll keep it safe until you want it back.”

Kurt frowns. “What if I never want it back, wouldn’t it be better to burn it?”

“You burn the stuff from bad exes, you hide the stuff from good ones, because one day you’ll want to look back and remember your first boyfriend.” Blaine stands up and holds out a hand to Kurt.

“You’ve never even been in a relationship,” Kurt points out, allowing himself to be pulled into a sitting position.

Blaine laughs. “Maybe not, but I have seen Gilmore Girls.”

“The ‘Dean-box’,” Kurt sighs.

“The ‘Dean-box’,” Blaine repeats and forces himself not to linger on the fact that Kurt hasn’t let go of his hand.

I'll tag @kurtsascot, @hevanderson, @fallevs, @cryscendo,

@backslashdelta, @calsvoid, and @lusthurts today!

[imo-chan-imagines]

『 Haikyuu!! Week 2020 | Day 7 』

· Oct. 1st → Fly! ·

Characters: (teams) Karasuno, Nekoma, Fukurodani, Aoba Johsai, Shiratorizawa, (indiv.) Miya Atsumu, Miya Osamu, Aone Takanobu

Prompts: A. free choice!

Tags/warnings: Haikyuu!! (anime), Among Us (video game), PG, fluff, crack, video games, video game violence/death, headcanons, HaikyuuWeek2020

A/N: Among Us is a bit of a hot meme at the moment (great game. Go and play it/watch other people play it if you can. Get a feel for the game if you somehow haven't already.) So I thought, 'Hey, why not?' I mean, I do need to heal my heart after my Day 6 post, so...

What an amazing week it's been! Well done, everyone! All of my Haikyuu Week 2020 posts are SFW, but there's a little treasure trove of NSFW on my blog, too. Please peruse to your heart's content. Thanks for reading! Please enjoy! ♡

Haikyuu boys / playing Among Us

☆ Karasuno ☆

Literally the loudest games you'll ever witness

You know that grainy, electronic crackle that happens when everybody yells on Discord at the same time? Yeah. That

Kageyama can't lie for shit. It's so obvious when he's lying that it's a genuine miracle if he doesn't immediately get ejected

And he stands in all the wrong places when he's faking doing his tasks 😭😭

But he sounds super suspicious when he's telling the truth, too 😅

Noya and Tanaka buddy up no matter what, and go around trying to clear or murder people together

They also end up fuelling each other's incorrect assumptions

Asahi is way too timid to murder anyone right away, so if nobody dies in the first two rounds, you know it's him or someone trying to frame him...

Daichi is the host and tries to keep order in the lobby...tries someone help him

Hinata: Guys, please stop swearing! Natsu is watching me play!! waahhh 🙈 so cute 😇

Hinata always has to be orange. Don't touch his orange

Ennoshita is the king of self-reporting and getting away with it it just be like that

Kageyama goes around called 'Milk' 🥛

Tsukki tries to big-brain the shit out of it 🤣

He's also hella manipulative as an imposter and refuses to kill Yamaguchi 😭

Suga likes to take out the oxygen/recator and lie in wait for the people who come to fix it he will giggle adorably when it ends up working, which sounds kinda pshyco, ngl 😂

But totally screams at his screen when someone he suspected sneaks up on him and kills him

Yamaguchi low-key prefers the mini games to the actual game 😭😭

And Yachi loves being pink and wearing the little flower in her hair ngl, she nearly fainted the first time she got killed

She doesn't play with them often because it's so loud 😬

☆ Nekoma ☆

Kenma streams the gaming sessions on Twitch, and now they kind of have a cult following 🤷‍♀️

These fans be thirsting hard, too like us

Check out my smut headcanons, y'all 🙌

Kuroo is the closest to a genius player you're ever going to see

He does his tasks fairly efficiently, he's good at remembering layouts and people's movements, he calculates the timings of his kills with terrifying accuracy, defends himself pretty well, whether he's lying or not, can gaslight the entire lobby into sussing an innocent person, and pieces together other people's lies with surprising ease

Do not cross Kuroo. He's scary at this game. He's not the Scheming Captain for nothing, y'all

Lev is the kind of person to vent right in front of someone by accident, which is so awkward, but so funny 😂

The entire team must wear the bear ears hat. Yes, that is a rule

It's the closest to cat ears they have right now....

Kenma is pretty quiet when he's playing. He doesn't normally play online games, but his streams took off on Twitch, sooo~

Kenma also has radar ears and can somehow detect when people are lying, but waits until he has proof to accuse them he smart 🤓

☆ Fukurodani ☆

'Whoever Talks the Loudest is Right' mentality 😂

And Bokuto will defend himself at the volume of an air raid siren

Akaashi stays as quiet as possible so he doesn't give anything away

When Bokuto starts sussing people, it turns into something out of Ace Attorney like, chill tf out, man 😂

But his guesses are normally completely wrong

Akaashi sets good parameters for the games, because he's sensible

If Bokuto is given the chance to host the lobby....he will set one task each, put everyone at 4x speed, give the imposter zero cooldown time, and sit back and watch the chaos

Whenever somebody doesn't have an absolutely airtight alibi–

Bokuto: That's hella sus, bro

Lots of childish nicknames, because...well, they're all mentally six years old

Except Akaashi, who has a higher mental age than all of them combined

Let me just say that when Bokuto and Kuroo play together, shit gets so funny

When one of them is an imposter, they will literally vent in front of the other one and trust them not to out them 😂😂

☆ Aoba Johsai ☆

Iwa-chan can always tell when Oikawa is lying, and constantly calls him out on it

Iwa: That's his lying voice. Shitty-kawa is lying. He's the imposter. Vote him off

Oikawa: IWAAA-CHAAAN D:<

Because Iwa's right about Oikawa when he is the imposter, it makes it easy to frame him when it's actually Iwa who's the imposter

And no-one believes Tooru 😭😭

Kyoutani has no chill as an imposter

He just murders everyone on sight, right in front of people, too

Kindaichi tends to accuse people with very little evidence, but his instincts are weirdly accurate

Oikawa gets killed almost immediately every game, so if he isn't dead two emergency meetings in, he's 100% an imposter 😭😭

He then goes around as a salty ghost when he's killed off, mumbling to himself about injustice as he refuses to do his tasks and watches the people who voted him off get murdered one by one

Not that anyone's holding a grudge 🙄😂

Oikawa refuses to be purple and always kills whoever is purple first because it reminds him of Ushijima 😭😭

☆ Shiratorizawa ☆

Ushijima refuses to play if he can't be purple give it back. N O W

And it takes him a long time to get used to the game and the rules

'Why are the lights off? What are these tasks? Why is that one flashing at me? Where is med bay? Why can I use this vent? What's this big, red button for?' etc.

You get the idea. Toshi = big noob

He doesn't really understand the concept of lying, either...

He keeps forgetting to mute himself and ends up saying some very incriminating stuff over the mic which has everyone in literal tears from laughter

Tendou is a sneaky S.O.B, using those vents like a pro and gaslighting perfectly innocent people he's a little bloodthirsty, too 🤫

And his initial guesses about who's the imposter are almost always 100% correct Guess Monster, y'all

Goshiki goes around trying to clear people by watching them doing their tasks, especially Ushijima

But then he gets called suspicious for hanging around people too much

The first time an emergency meeting was ever called, Ushijima literally asked "Why is my name in red?" much to everyone's amusement

Everyone's scared of Ushijima when he follows them, but it normally turns out that he just doesn't know where he's going

Shirabu tends to lose his shit when people start accusing him and he's innocent, and will never EVER trust a word that comes out of Goshiki's mouth

Speaking of, Goshiki and Shirabu – boy, do they bicker like eight year-olds, wasting entire voting rounds just arguing with each other 🙄😭

So everyone else decides to vote off one, and then the other at the next meeting 😭😭

Misc.

☆ The Miya twins ☆

Atsumu puts 100% trust in Osamu not to kill him, even if he is the imposter

How could he? He's his brother. His twin. His other half. They share a unique bond–

And then he screams in betrayal when Osamu slaughters him mercilessly 😂😂

Osamu is unaffected by the sudden outburst from his brother's room

Put them together as an imposter duo, though, and you're in for some trouble

They often win by executing a perfect double kill

And they're both pretty good at lying, but Osamu will not hesitate to throw Atsumu under the bus and vote him off if he's being too suspicious or the lobby has turned against him 😂

Ah, the bond of brotherhood 😂

☆ Aone Takanobu ☆

Aone doesn't talk very much

But when he does, his voice is so low and even that nobody ever suspects he's the imposter

I'm thinking like Corpse Husband, if you've seen him playing with Pewds and the gang

It doesn't really occur to people that he could be lying. He seems so trustworthy and honest

Finds it very hard to blame anyone else, though

Is fairly decent as doing his tasks as a crewmate, but it takes him a long time to remember the layouts of the ships

Almost never gets voted off the ship

© imo-chan-imagines 2020

[darling-i-read-it]

Movie Projector

Gerry Lane x reader

Word Count: 800

Warnings: talks of zombies

Author’s Note: I’ve never written anything full length for Gerry before so I changed that because bradley i love you 

Summary: you find the last part for a movie projector 

Genre: fluff

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director 

(not my gif)

  Gerry walked into the house but he did it quietly. He looked around at the stillness of the places and made sure to check each boarded up window, every single entrance was still as it had been when he left. He found everything was in place, not a thing moved which was odd because usually you knocked over a lamp or something.

You walked out from the kitchen into the living room and he was relieved to see that you were still there. He had begun to worry as he stood in the door frame. You were wearing his shirt and some shorts which meant that you clearly hadn’t left today. That was good.

“How’s Earth? Still there?” you asked. He laughed and nodded, taking off his weapons and bits of armour one by one. You walked over and helped him, your hands shaky as you started to take off the last bit that was on his elbow. You grabbed his arm and smiled, kissing him gently.

“Earth's okay. Infested with zombies but otherwise alright,” he compromised. You nodded and let go of him, walking back into the kitchen. The two of you had been holed up in an apartment with thick walls. You had picked it out. He wanted to keep moving, find someplace different but you liked it. You thought that it was quaint and the kind of place the two of you would have gotten at this stage in your relationship. Pre kids but probably post marriage, had you been able to get married. 

“What’s that smell?” he asked. 

“I went out today.”

“You went out today?” he asked, quickly walking over to you. He had figured you hadn’t. “You know you aren’t supposed to go out without me.” You waved your hand about your head and held up the pot.

“I did. I was not killed or bit. And look what I found,” you said, holding up a box of kraft mac and cheese and two chocolate bars. His eyes went wide.

“Where did you find those?”

“I went down stairs and looked in the back of that locker. There was a hole back there and a few hidden goodies. Oh!” You turned around quickly and grabbed something off of the table before hiding it behind you. You walked over to him.

“If you put a box of green beans in my face-” he started but you cut him off. 

“No! Look!” You held up a box of wires that he was at first confused about. Then he realized that it was the last bit to the projector you had been fixing up. In your other hand was an old movie that he didn’t recognize but he was so busy being excited he didn’t care. Neither of you had seen a movie since the world went to heck.

“You!” he said and didn’t even finish before grabbing it out of your hands. He rushed to the projector and you sat behind him, throwing your arms around him from the back. He started to fit it in and you waited not so patiently before he put it on the ground slowly. “Where’s the movie?”

You handed it to him and he put it in, adjusting it so that it faced the sheet you had hung up a few days earlier when you found it. You got up quickly and ran to the kitchen. Gerry heard popcorn popping and a few seconds later you walked in with the whole set up, the butter on top and the chocolate bars with you.

Soon there was a movie over the wall. It was black and white and grainy but you laughed, having to sit up to contain your excitement. 

“Gerry!” you squealed and he didn’t even tell you to quiet down like he would have if he wasn’t so excited himself. You threw your arms around him again but quickly let go to see the screen again. The sound was bad but you could make out the words.

You handed him the popcorn and he took it, eating some and really enjoying the moment. You put your head in his lap and the two of you were silent as you watched the movie, his hand brushing out your hair. 

For a moment in a world where joy had to be bottled and reused you were both happy and together, not a care for the zombies lurking outside.

[sparksflamesembersashes]

Random musings on 10.18 Find Me

Other Carylers have spoken about the episode and their interpretations of it and what it means for Caryl and their future and I've been sharing those and don't have that much to add to what’s already been discussed. Others have written well thought out and detailed analyses and interpretations and said it way better than I ever could. Most of them have been writing about Caryl forever and I started less than a year ago. I do want to speak to some technical stuff and a few other things, since I never do know when to shut up. Spoilers for 10.18 below the cut.

Brief talk on techie stuff... Wow, the cinematography in the plus six are really taking it up a notch. 10.18 has some of the most gorgeous images in the history of the show. The colors, the framing, and Caryl; separated by a stretch of water that's a literal stand-in for the divide between them, in an episode stuffed with signs and symbols and parallels. "Find Me" has some of the most visually breathtaking shots in the history of TWD... and do you know why? Because the plus six were filmed on digital cameras, for the first time in the history of a show that has always been shot on 16 millimeter film. Turns out, the digital process not only has fewer "touch points" (thanks for nothing, COVID) but it's also cheaper, faster, and easier on the environment.

TWD almost switched to digital for Season 2, and while AK claims now that they can still give it that classic TWD look, in a 2019 interview posted on comicbook.com, she said they were committed to shooting on film to preserve it's look and feel (confirming that film and digital are noticeably not created equal, an opinion/truth they are apparently backing off of, now). If the new episodes look different, its because they are. I am torn between which style I prefer. The grainy, Kodak-y type images of TWD as shot on film are increasingly rare on any screen, simultaneously nostalgic and beautiful and born of toxicity. The gallons of chemicals used in developing standard film are not environmentally friendly and probably need to go the way of the dinosaur. 

Digital is wonderful in its own ways, so minute in its details, and can easily capture images and light conditions otherwise incredibly difficult to duplicate on actual film... But digital doesn't look the same, it doesn't feel the same, in the way that CD's and vinyl records don't sound the same. Purists curl their lip at the new and improved version of the medium, but the truth is,most people don't notice the differences.

TWD has always used the sun and the moon to their best visual advantage and both the celestial backdrops show up in "Find Me." The sun filtering through the trees onto Daryl or in his general direction has made repeat appearances in S10. Is this a metaphor for his finally finding his enlightenment? (Or is it nothing deeper than AMC uses the light to make everything look as cool as possible?) 

10.18 shows us more of Daryl's soul (in a single episode) than we've seen before. His character goes through all sorts of colors, screaming in the rainstorm, grimacing as puppy Dog licks his face, meeting and spending time with this strange, lonely, gruff, almost mirror reflection of himself, someone who is grieving and angry and alone. Fighting with Carol! A real fight, but an honest and not altogether unhealthy one. You gotta work through to acceptance and let go of the past before you can look forward to a future, and these two have enough trauma issues between them to fill a psychiatric journal. They’ve a long, arduous road ahead of them, but they WILL reach their destination. Together.

Daryl throwing the fish at Leah's door and Leah throwing the fish at Daryl are my favorite moments in the episode. I laughed out loud. I did not get the impression that they only encountered each other once every several months, I took it that the time jumps measured the progression of their relationship, i.e. that it took that long for them to warm up to each other. When Daryl did go to stay at Leah's, it was literally out of necessity, as he was getting frost bitten in the woods and probably would have lost at least a digit or two had he remained in his camp.

For the first time, I didn't really enjoy the Caryl banter? (Please don't hurt me.) There was a sadness, a tension, and a sense of loss there I just couldn't shake. Carol was trying to run away from the horrors of the Whisperer's aftermath, and Daryl knew it, and he was annoyed by it. Carol's attempts at lightheartedness seemed forced. I feel like Daryl is a man with a whole lot on his mind at this point, and that Carol is a woman who is habitually trying not to think about the real stuff if she can avoid it. She jokes and banters but she's almost too cheerful... or maybe it just seems that way because Daryl's so grim. Not grim as in we're-all-facing-our-end-of-days-doom grim, but not in a laughing mood where Carol's concerned. He thinks she's running again, and seeing Leah's cabin reminds him that Leah probably ran from him, too. He lost both his brothers, Rick and Merle. Daryl has abandonment issues and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility going back as far as we know. He loses people and can't find them again, no matter how much he searches. 

Revisiting Leah's cabin, the devastation of Alexandria, and everything that's been building up over, about, and because of Carol has pressurized within Daryl till he finally takes a shot, and who can blame him? But he also shows his development and maturity by trying to express his disappointment with controlled words of frustration (compared to camp- or barn-rage Daryl in S2), telling Carol exactly what it is she does that's widening the chasm between them. 

Carol to Daryl early in the episode "I don't want to lose you because you can't figure out when to stop," and Daryl to Carol "That's on you. 'Cause you don't know when to stop.") Daryl doesn't know when to stop searching for his lost brother and blaming himself for things, Carol didn't know when to stop her revenge-fueled pursuit of Alpha. Daryl also tells Carol "That's all that matters. You being right." (after she says she was right to go after and destroy Alpha to avenge her son.) At the end of the ep., Carol says it again: "I was right" (this time about their luck having run out), then she goes to fix the door. 

So now Caryl know and have established what gets each other's goat. That could be a good thing, but tptb will undoubtedly attempt to convince us its a bad thing,, ya think? Neither of the characters knowing when to stop and their mutual annoyance over the fact could be something the show runners milk for a while.

Î wanted to know whether Daryl went back to the cabin after leaving his note, to see whether Leah had returned to it, or not. I want to know what Carol did with the note. Did she take it with her, or did she put it back? They never showed us. Daryl seemed anxious and tense about her finding it, and I did not miss the symbolism of Carol being the woman who eventually finds the note Daryl left behind years ago: "I belong with you. Find me." I mean, how perfect is that? 

Contrary to spoilery bullshit stinking up the Twittersphere, Carol did not seem exactly “upset” at finding the note, though clearly she was sad. She knew exactly what the note was, so Daryl must’ve told her about it, that he left it. Maybe he didn't tell her exactly what it said or everything about Leah, but my impression was that she realized what it was and where they were, and it was all yesterday's news to her. Seeing the note seemed to make her sad for Daryl because she knows Daryl can't handle losing people, and that he punishes himself for failing to help or save people by pushing everybody away and isolating. 

Leah didn't so much choose to be there in the cabin as she ran for her life from a dangerous situation and the cabin was just the place where she and her bitten son ended up.

So many yawning gaps in the Leah storyline. How often did they see each other? Did Daryl move in with her toward the end of their relationship? I felt like he did after the time she found him freezing in the woods, but that he'd leave for days to go look for Rick, or hunt, or who tf knows. Maybe he'd leave to see or meet Carol. Carol knew about Leah, but when? Before, or after it was happening? Why is that important? I just want to know when he told her.  Really hoping they didn’t leave things purposely vague so they can fill in the gaps to screw with us later. 

Timing is everything. Like, how much time passed between Leah telling Daryl to choose, and the time Carol told Daryl she couldn't keep visiting? Or did he leave Leah's cabin and return to it that same day? Which would imply Leah abandoned Daryl practically the instant he walked out the door following her ultimatum. It seems like Daryl was gone a while, it was dark when Leah told him to choose, and daylight in the scene with Carol at his camp and when he was walking in the woods. It could have been days. That makes a difference. Leah was obviously not Daryl's first choice, no matter that he ran back to her in the end.

The fact that Carol knew about Daryl's relationship with Leah is a crafty move on the show runner's part because we can't really be pissed at Daryl if Carol knew about it the whole time and was cool with it.... but we all know now that Daryl didn't tell her everything. 

No one is talking about how Leah obviously abandoned Dog, she left him shut in the damn cabin for who knows how long after she left. And she DID leave. The cabin looked abandoned when Daryl left the note. He obviously went searching for her with Dog, but for how long? 

Not to say there was nothing between them, but I never felt for an instant that Leah had Daryl's heart, or that he ever offered it up to her in the first place, but I am also 100% sure that’s because I’m ride-or-die for Caryl and can’t bear to entertain the thought. No matter what else they were, Daryl and Leah are isolated, damaged, traumatized people who wanted someone to hold on to. Someone to try and forget with. It's not like there were a lot of other people around to choose from.

So did Leah just leave Dog behind because the memories associated with him were too painful? (i.e. he was born on the day Leah's son died) Or did she feel that Daryl needed the companionship and gambled that Daryl would drop by soon and take him in? It really bothers me that she just split and left the dog locked in the cabin like that. 

Grateful they didn't show us anything extra of Daryl seeming to genuinely give a shit, tbh. (Throwing a fish at someone's door, having sex with them, sleeping in their bed or eating their cooking doesn't necessarily constitute giving a shit in this world, just saying.) That was both refreshing (cuz u know, Caryl is endgame), and kind of tragic. I felt like Daryl was rather emotionally detached the entire time, but that Leah was maybe falling in love with him. Not in a good way, but in a possessive, demanding, all-or-nothing type of way. 

How very very clever of AMC to leave us with all these ambiguities. So much room for interpretation, so many gaps to never be filled in. Bastards. On the bright side, all these holes in the story and missing material provide endless new opportunities for fanfic writers like me who can't break free of the bonds of canon. So, yay, I guess?

I am sad to give up the virgin Daryl trope, I was beginning to think that one was ours in canon to keep, but you know, it is what it is. It was a good, long run while it lasted, and I'm grateful we got to write inexperienced Daryl fics while we could still entertain the fantasy that Daryl was actually inexperienced. So, R.I.P. virgin Daryl. I'm not as upset about his getting laid as I thought I'd be (although it was incredibly underhanded, AMC, to pull this shit so very late in the game, there better be a good reason for it). 

All the Leah thing means to me right now is that our man has probably picked up some skills during his time with her, and Carol's gonna be the ultimate beneficiary. Plus, Daryl's evolved over the years from throwing a fish at a woman's door to delivering her dinner on a tray with a flower, so...progress was made, even if he didn't start out with the woman we wish he had. (News Flash: The love of his life was unavailable and actually married to another man at the time, so there's that.) 

There are a staggering number of Caryllels in this episode. Someone once said here that Kang loves her symbolism and they weren't wrong. No matter what's to come, we can be confident about where this road ends. At this point in TWD, to not eventually give us Caryl canon would be the absolute greatest trolling of a fandom in the history of trolling fandoms, and besides, we're getting a spin-off.

Another thing, the fact that Rick and Leah both basically disappeared on him shines a bright light on Daryl's determination to stick to Carol like glue in 10A and B. He was terrified that she was going to disappear on him, too.

What happened to the Caryl fandom following the spoilers wasn't worth it. How many times have we freaked out over spoilers? You think we'd learn. And you KNOW we are valued because AMC went so very far out of their way to provide the vaguest-ever depiction of a sexual encounter for Daryl. Remember the Eugene spying scene with Abe and Rosita, guys? Shane and Lori screwing on the ground in the woods? They could really have tortured us, and they chose to be kind.

I'm looking forward to "Diverged." Honestly, I could give a shit about most of the other characters, but they'll have to make do for us over the next couple of weeks. Just about the time 10.18's been dissected and interpreted to death, Caryl will reappear on our screens and mess with our hearts and minds some more. I can't wait.

Thank you for coming to my rant, and Caryl on! 

[thecleverdame]

Control and Release - 31

Series Masterlist

TEDTalk!Sam x Reader

Summary: After the rest of the staff is caught in a snowstorm, you find yourself acting as a personal assistant to the notorious Sam Winchester. As the arrangement becomes more defined, you and Sam begin a sexual adventure with dangerous consequences.  

Warnings: Dom/Sub, humiliation, embarrassment, sexual objectification, mutual masturbation, spanking, cum play, fingering, anal play, orgasm control, nipple clamps, dub-con, breath play.

Beta: @ilikaicalie

Parts 1-39 are currently available on Patreon for a monthly pledge of $2.50. This includes early access to all my stories, including Patreon exclusive content.  >> CLICK HERE <<

-

“These are all my dirty secrets?” You look in trepidation at the folder on the table in front of you.

 It’s thicker than anticipated. 

“Everyone one of them.” Charlie is a perky, energetic redhead that’s the exact opposite of what you expected. Sam’s talked about her like she’s Sherlock Holmes, and to be honest you assumed she was a man. “Or least what I could dig up. I can confidently say that if I couldn’t find it, no one else will either.” 

Glancing at Sam you open the cover and scan over the top page. It’s a basic list of your personal details, where you’ve lived, who you’ve dated. 

“Is there anything we should be concerned about?” Sam asks. He slides his arm over the back of the couch behind you. 

Charlie hesitates, looking at Sam and then speaks to you. 

“Are you comfortable doing this with him here? I mean, it can get real weird real quick for both of you.” 

“I can leave if you want,”  Sam offers. 

“No.” You swallow the urge to take him up on the offer. “No secrets, right? This is my life.”

“Okay.” Charlie opens her laptop. “There was a polaroid of you in your underwear at a party in your senior year of high school. But we had it taken off Facebook and I was able to purchase the original.”

“It was on Facebook?” You’re both horrified and impressed. You had no idea “How did you even find it?”

“It’s what I do,” she chirps, already moving on. “You’re pretty boring compared to the people I usually investigate. No DUIs or cheating. But you did date a man named Jasper.”

“Oh Jesus.” You want to crawl under the table. Your time with Jasper wasn’t as much a traditional relationship as a hook-up that lasted a year. He never came close to what you and Sam enjoy together, it was all about sex. “I’m sorry.” You turn to Sam who’s throwing you a terrifying, forced smile. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, a hand slipping over your thigh and wedging between your legs. 

“Did you make a sex tape with him?” Charlie asks and you choke on your own spit. 

“No, I mean, I don’t think we ever…”

“Is there a chance he recorded you without your knowledge?”

“Maybe.” You search your memory. Everything from that time is hazy, the two of you drank a lot. “I mean, I don’t know. You think he recorded me?”

“I think he has something.” Charlie’s attention switches to Sam and she morphs into all-business mode. “He was interested in why I was asking questions. When I made an initial offer for any videos or pictures he might have he acted like he had something. But I think he realized it was valuable and kicked me out of his apartment.”

“You offered the maximum?” Sam asks. 

“Yeah, he didn’t go for it.”

“Double it and see what he does.”

“Got it.” She stops to make a note.

“He has a sex tape with me in it?” You’re not past this yet. You look to Sam who’s unreadable. “I had no idea. I mean I eventually realized he was a creep but I never thought he would do something like that. What if he posts it?”

“Don’t worry,” he nods, sliding a hand over your knee. “I’ll handle it.”

“Other than Jasper, you and Sam are actually the biggest potential issue. I read Cole’s report. It’s concerning despite your prior relationship. If the wrong person got a copy of his written complaint it would be damaging. I think you can expect the real story to revolve around the fact that Sam intervened when a mad man was shooting up the office. You can choose how you want to spin that. If you decide you want some heroic meet-cute to be the official story then I can erase any trace of your relationship before the shooting happened. If you want me to leave some crumbs confirming you were together prior, I can do that to. And if you want a lid on the whole thing, no problem.”

“People will care?” you ask. 

“Oh, for sure.” She chuckles, looking at you like you’re a moron. “Sam’s personal life has been a lockbox. You’re the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to him.”

“Wonderful.” This would all be so much easier if he wasn’t so well off. If he hadn’t been quite as successful all these precautions could be avoided. 

“Just tell me what kind of story you want out there and I’ll start planting the seeds.” She grins at Sam with a warm familiarity. Few people interact with him this easily. There must be quite a back story. 

“We’ll talk about it,” Sam answers for you, shifting in his seat. “Anything else?”

“That’s all for her.”

“You have my background as well?”

“I do.” She pulls a thinner file from her bag and you look at him in surprise. 

“She did one on you too?”

“Charlie has been the keeper of my secrets for a decade. She makes sure any possible indiscretions stayed buried,” Sam explains. 

Charlie is looking between you and Sam, asking a silent question. 

“You can say whatever you need to in front of her.” Sam turns to you. “You can leave if you feel uncomfortable.” 

You find yourself suddenly nervous. Sam’s past is largely a mystery and you’re not sure if you want to know. Were there others before you? 

“The woman you had a financial arrangement with is not a problem. It’s Madison I’m concerned about.”

Financial arrangement? That piques your interest but the conversation moves on. 

“It’s been years. You don’t think she’s gotten past it?” Sam shifts beside you, betraying his discomfort for the entire situation. He’s rarely visibly distressed but there’s no covering this up. His reaction may be subtle but it’s there. 

“She still Googles you once a week.” Charlie turns her computer toward Sam. You don’t understand you’re looking at, but he seems to. Sam takes interest in something on the screen and you feel him stiffen beside you. “She’s living in Boston again?”

“She moved back last year,” Charlie confirms. 

“You didn’t tell me.” Sam’s tone shifts to his trademark disapproval but it doesn’t seem to phase the perky redhead.

“I update when I think there’s a concern. This wasn’t a red flag for me. She’s from Boston. Her father is sick. She got a good job at a tech firm. It looks to me like she came home to be near her family...or...”

“Or?” Sam asks. 

“Or she came back to be close to you. It’s hard to tell with her. Madison has always been a wild card. You know how to pick ‘em.” Her eyes dart to you, offering an apologetic grin. “Present company excluded.”  

You just sit there taking in these new tidbits of information. A trail of breadcrumbs that lead to the story that was Sam’s life before you. 

“Do you think she would try to hurt Sam?” you ask and two pairs of eyes look at each other before turning to you. “Or me?”

“She’s not that kind of crazy,” Charlie assures you. “But she would love to embarrass Sam. Make things hard for him. She’s still pissed he cut her off.” 

“I see.” You sit back as they continue talking details. You’ll have questions for him later but right now your mind is swirling. Your ex hook-up has a possible homemade sex tape of you doing God knows what, and Sam apparently hired a hooker.

“And what about Dean and my father?” Sam squeezes your knee, bringing you to attention. 

“What about them?” You lean forward with interest. 

“They’re hard to track.” Charlie closes her computer and sits back. There’s no documentation of this inquiry. Nothing to tie either of them to the wanted Winchesters. 

“That can’t surprise you.” Sam nods. “But you’re good.”

“Yes, I am.” She offers a little bow of her head. “I had to track the weird to find them.”

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“They like the crazy stuff, ghosts, and monsters. So I kept an eye out for any weird happenings. Some lady in New Jersey claimed a sewer monster stole her baby. And you’ll never guess who popped up in town at some shitty motel the next day.”

Taking out her phone she pulls up a photo and holds it out for you and Sam to see. It’s a grainy security camera shot of Dean with a baseball cap pulled over his face. 

“When was this?” Sam inquires. 

“Six weeks ago. Your brother is staying along the eastern seaboard. Investigating paranormal bullshit in Vermont, Maine, Connecticut. Occasionally he’ll pop up in the midwest, but for the most part, he’s staying close.” 

“To me.” Sam’s not asking, he already knows. 

“Yeah, that would be my guess. I did a sweep of your office buildings, homes and so on. I found a digital hole in your home security cameras. Someone created a backdoor into the system so they could have unfettered access.”

“He’s watching us?” Dean’s been on your mind ever since the encounter in the kitchen over a year ago. But now it seems your concerns were in fact warranted. 

“Maybe,” she continues. “It’s hard to tell with him. He might be watching. Maybe he’s visiting, editing the footage to cover his tracks. Or maybe it’s not Dean at all.”

“Who else would it be?” you ask, afraid of the answer. “FBI?”

“My father,” Sam sighs. 

“It’s a possibility.” Charlie shrugs. “Unfortunately it’s impossible to tell what they’re up to.”

“What’s your gut instinct?” Sam asks Charlie. 

“I think they’re keeping an eye on you...and her.” She looks you dead on. “If you want to know why your guess is as good as mine. They believe some insane stuff, Sam. End of the world, apocalypse wack-a-doo shit. They could just be trying to keep you safe. But there’s always the possibility of something else. Y/N was right to be concerned.”

“Perfect,” Sam laughs dryly, rolling his eyes. “This is the last thing I need right now.”

“I liaised with your new security guy.  He knows what’s going on with your family, Madison, the whole shebang. He’s working on Y/N’s apartment and your house to seal the leaks. I’ll schedule a meeting for the three of us when you get back to Boston.”

“Sounds good.” Sam stands as Charlie collects her things and you stay seated. “Thank you for everything. As always, you’re invaluable.” 

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks.” She laughs. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“You too.” You wave her off, watching as Sam locks the door after her departure. He shoves a hand in his pocket, the two of you staring at each other in silence. 

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“Oh, more than you wanna know.” Running a hand down your face you categorize the evening. Sex scandals, stalkers, fugitives from justice...where to start. “You paid for sex?”

“Technically, no.” Sam walks over to sit on the couch across the coffee table. 

“What does that mean?”

“It means I never fucked her.”

“Okay, but you hired a hooker?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t have sex with her?”

“No.” His jaws ticks. He doesn’t want to answer these questions. “She sucked my dick. She allowed me to do things to her, but I never fucked her. Would you like the details?”

“Jesus,” you sigh. “No. God...fuck. And the other woman, Madison, she was your girlfriend?” 

“No. She and I had an arrangement. The same as you and I had when this started. She worked for W & S. It only lasted a few months. She became attached, somewhat obsessive. She believed we were more than our arrangement and I put an end to it.” He stares at you, still as a statue. 

“Okay.” You hate the very idea of him with someone else. The thought of another woman makes you angry, but he’s being honest, and honesty is everything so you swallow the urge to take it out on him. “What are we going to do about your family?”

“I’ll give you the details as soon as I have them,” he offers. “We’ll have increased security.”

“Good.” Racking your brain you try to make sure you’ve covered everything. “Oh! Jasper, are you sure Charlie will be able to get that video...if there is one, I mean.” 

“She has her ways and I have money. Everyone has a price. We just need to find his.”

You’re both quiet again. Things feel unsettled, awkward for the first time in a long time. And you only know one way to reset this feeling. There are times when having Sam in complete control makes you feel the safest. 

“Sam,” you start, watching him sigh in response. He’s expecting more questions. 

“Yes?” he asks, looking at you expectantly. 

“I’d like you to spank me now.” This request makes your cheeks hot with anticipation. His face morphs from controlled irritation to pure lust, eyes narrow, a grin pulling at his mouth. “With your belt.”

“Take off your clothes and lay across my lap,” he instructs, already working at his buckle. “Get the gag. We can’t have you making too much noise.” 

[vannahfanfics]

Song of the Sea

Category: General Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Eri, Shota Aizawa, Hizashi Yamada

Eri jumped as her bedroom door burst open, followed by a very familiar voice announcing, “Hey, hey, stop what you’re doing, because we’re going to the beach todaaaaaayyy!” 

“The beach?” Eri said owlishly as she looked up from her tea table, where she was currently pouring imaginary tea for the myriad of stuffed animals seated around the small pink furniture. As Present Mic waltzed into her bedroom, wiggling his hips in a giddy little jig, his grin was nearly blinding. 

“That’s right, my dear! Summer is here, and your therapist thought it would be good for you to go out and get some sunshine!” he explained as he crouched down and picked up one of the ceramic cups. He shook it at her, silently demanding to be served, and Eri giggled delightedly as she used the floral-patterned teapot to distribute. Present Mic took a long, exaggerated sip of air, emerald eyes glittering playfully above the rim of the cup before he pulled it away from his lip with a loud, satisfied sigh. “Delicious! Anyway,” he said, bopping her on the nose as she continued to snicker, “How does that sound?” 

“I’ve never been to the beach before,” Eri considered, cocking her head to the side. From what she knew of the beach, it was supposed to be an enjoyable place indeed. Ever since being rescued from Overhaul’s clutches, she had been making considerable efforts to come out of her shell and do things that normal little girls did. A smile spread across her face as she imagined the rolling waves cresting on pristine white sands, tasting the salty sea breeze and feeling the sun kissing her skin. “Yeah! That sounds really fun!” she agreed with an emphatic nod. 

“Wonderful!” Present Mic trilled and clapped his hands together. “Let’s go, then!” 

“Wait, right now?” Eri squeaked in surprise as he hopped to his feet. She looked hesitantly at her array of stuffed animals. “But I haven’t finished the tea party.” It would be very rude of her to leave her guests wanting tea and snack cakes. 

“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry!” Present Mic tutted, smacking himself in the forehead. “How rude of me! Scoot Mr. Teddy over so I can enjoy some tea too, Eri, dear.” Eri did as he wished, cackling as the tall man wormed his way into one of the wooden chairs, his knees hunched up under his chin. He grabbed one of the chocolate cream-filled pastries and devoured it in nearly one bite, crumbs raining down from his chin. “We’ll finish this first and then go to the beach!” 

Eri nodded eagerly and then proceeded to finish serving her guest, along with the newcomer Present Mic. Eraserhead found them there half an hour later, with his friend loudly regaling Eri’s stuffed bunny rabbit with a story about their high school glory days. Eri was cackling maniacally at his gut-bustingly funny rendition of Eraserhead falling asleep on the school rooftop and getting drenched by a surprise thunderstorm. 

“And he came trudging into class, dripping wet and had to explain—” Present Mic was interrupted as Eraserhead grunted in the doorway. His head whirled on his shoulders to look at the disgruntled teacher with wide emerald eyes. “Oh, hello, Shota.” 

“I thought we were taking Eri to the beach?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Yes, but I had to finish my tea party!” Eri explained with a gesture at her stuffed animals, which all had snack cake-colored stains over their snouts. Eraserhead regarded the myriad of toys with silent consideration before nodding understandingly. 

“Right. Of course. Are you done now?” 

“Yes, I think so.” At her confirmation, Present Mic jumped up with a triumphant yowl, throwing his hands in the air. 

“Yeeeeeeeaaaahhhh! Beach time, beach time! Oh, Shota, did you bring it? Did you bring it?” Present Mic pestered as he zoomed up to Eraserhead and tugging elatedly on his shirt. The dark-haired hero scowled and shoved him away with an irritated, “Yes, yes, now get off!” Eri blinked confusingly as Present Mic bristled with excitement in the corner, and Eraserhead procured a plastic bag to fish something out of it. “If we’re going to the beach, you need a swimsuit,” he explained simply as he handed her the clothing item. 

Eri turned it over in her hands, eyes widening. It was a beautiful one-piece; three rows of red ruffles crossed the bust area diagonally, with strings coming up to tie around the back of her neck and others crisscrossing over where her shoulder blades would be. The rest of the fabric was creamy white and patterned with apples, complete with little stems and green leaves. As she admired the cute bathing suit, Present Mic dashed over, tucking his fists under his chin as he practically vibrated with excitement. 

“Do you like it?! Oh, when we saw it, we just knew it would look super cute!” 

“Mic, that’s gross.” 

“Eh? What’s the point of having an adorable daughter without dolling her up for the world to see?!” 

“Mic, she’s not your daughter.” 

“She might as well be!” Present Mic protested, hugging Eri close. As her cheek squished into his chest, Eri smiled sweetly and looked up at him. 

“I love it! Can I go put it on?” 

“Of course, of course!” Present Mic trilled, pushing her past Eraserhead to the hallway bathroom. “And while you get ready, Shota and I will get everything ready for our super-duper awesome day at the beach! Yeeaaaaaaaaaah!” 

Eri had to giggle at his enthusiasm; she found herself thoroughly hyped for the new adventure as he shut the bathroom door behind her and dragged Eraserhead off to prepare all the necessary items. She wormed out of her clothes and slipped into the bathing suit, careful not to tangle the strings as she tied them around her neck. It took a few tries as she was too short to use the mirror, so she had to fumble underneath her silvery hair to secure the knot. Eri felt pretty accomplished when she managed to do so without asking for the adults’ help. As soon as she unlocked the door and opened it back up, Present Mic was standing there in a muscle tee and a pair of yellow shorts with rainbow music notes all over them, a towel around his neck and that same grin on his face. 

“Kyaaaaaa! Shota, isn’t she the most adorable thing ever?” he howled with delight. Eraserhead, sporting a gray tee and some plain black swim trunks, lowered his shades to inspect Eri critically. Though he lifted his sunglasses before grunting his approval, she could see some color rise to his cheeks. Present Mic scurried over to secure her hair into a set of pigtails before ushering her to the door. “We’re gonna have so much fun! Ah, wait, wait, wait,” he said as she stepped out of the door. When she looked back in bewilderment, he was whipping out his cellphone. “Say cheese! I have to show everyone how cute Eri looks on her first day at the beach!” 

Eri reflexively smiled, wincing as the camera flash momentarily blinded her. Present Mic snickered to himself as his fingers flew across the keyboard, probably posting the picture everywhere it could be seen. That is until Eraserhead booted him out the doorway, causing Present Mic to yelp and rub his bum with a pout at his friend. Eraserhead just trudged past him, carrying a beach bag full of towels and other assorted items to the car. Eri tottered along after him, pigtails swinging with each trot. As she climbed into the backseat and buckled herself in, she peered curiously into the bag; before she could get a good look, Eraserhead reached back from the driver’s seat to close it. 

“You don’t want to ruin the surprise, do you?” he winked. Eri slumped a little as she was playfully admonished, but a surprise did sound fun. 

She obediently refrained from peeking during the ride. It became the furthest thing from her mind anyway as they neared the shore; she sat up in the seat to stare at the expanse of blue stretching along the horizon, red eyes wide as they behold the white rolling waves and even whiter rolling dunes. Colorful umbrellas and towels dotted the landscape. Beachgoers lounged in the shade reading books and listening to portable radios, played in the wet sand moistened by the tide, or frolicked in the surf, tossing balls and playing with inflatables. Eri bounced up and down, growing so excited that a little squeal bubbled out of her throat. When she looked impatiently to the front compartment of the car, both Eraserhead and Present Mic were smiling happily at her out of the corners of their eyes. 

As soon as they parked, Eri jumped out of the car to dash to the sand. She hopped off the boardwalk into the grainy stuff, gasping as her bare feet sank into the warm grains. She wiggled her toes, appreciating the way the sand moved around her feet like fluid. She then jumped up and down with a squeal, throwing up the fine sand all around her. 

“The beach! The beach!” she chanted, turning in a circle as she stamped around. Eraserhead chuckled as he walked up behind her, carrying an umbrella and two fold-out chairs over his shoulder. 

“Having fun already, kiddo? Wait until you see the water.” 

Eri gasped, whirling around so hard she lost her balance and bumped into Eraserhead’s legs. She could hear the waves rolling beyond the dunes, crashing and frothing. She ran up the side of the dune, grunting as she sunk deep into the sand, to clamber up to the top. She immediately sucked in a breath as the water came into view and the salty breeze hit her nose; it looked ethereal, the way the water rushed in and out, spraying up sea foam as it sank into the sand. Squeals of children and pleasant conversation floated on the breeze, creating a symphony of revelry on the tune of the ocean. 

“Wowwww…” she breathed exultantly, looking up at Eraserhead and Present Mic as they came walking up the dune. “We’re really gonna spend the day here?” It almost seemed too good to be true; tears of gratitude and joy welled up in her eyes as she looked back to the gently crashing waves. In the deep dungeons of Overhaul’s compound, she could only dream of the ocean. Now here it was, right before her very eyes, close enough to touch. 

“Of course,” Eraserhead smiled. He adjusted his grip on the chairs and umbrella before extending his hand to her. “Let me put this stuff down, and then we’ll go into the water, okay?” Eri nodded without looking at him, spellbound by the push-and-pull of the waves, but she reached for his hand on instinct. It wrapped around her small one, tough and calloused and warm, and led her down the side of the sand dune to the beach. Eraserhead left Present Mic to set up the chairs and umbrellas as he led Eri to the shoreline, where she stopped hesitantly in front of the water. The back-and-forth crashes almost seemed intimidating, now; surely, those waves could suck her right in and spirit her away into the great dark unknown. With a small whimper, she hugged Eraserhead’s leg and tugged at the ruffles of her bathing suit. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you go anywhere,” Eraserhead chuckled warmly and gave her back an encouraging pat. She clutched tight to his hand as she tentatively inched up to the waterline. As a wave came rolling up, foaming and dumping seashells into the wet sand, she dipped her foot into the water. She squealed and retracted it, giddy with relief. 

“It feels good!” Again, as the wave came cresting up, she edged forward, sticking her whole foot in this time. She laughed at the funny feeling of the bubbles popping against her skin and the water swirling around, making the shells bump against her ankle. She quickly leaned down to scoop up one. It was a cracked scallop shell, but the brown-and-cream patterning was so pretty that she still found herself holding it up to the sun to admire it. “So this once had a clam in it?” 

“Yep,” Eraserhead confirmed, taking it from her to look it over. “Now it’s an empty shell. It’s broken, but would you still like to keep it?” 

“Mhmm!” 

Eraserhead whistled to Present Mic, who obediently brought over a bucket that she could drop the shell into. Before she could dive down to get another one, Present Mic tapped her on the head with a tube of something. 

“Eri, let’s put on some sunscreen first, okay?” 

She nodded obediently, and he leaned down, popping open the cap and squeezing a generous amount of the thick white cream into his head. Eri scrunched up her face as he rubbed it all into the skin of her face, then slicked it over her arms, legs, and the bare areas of her back. She grimaced at first because it made her feel gross and sticky, but she tolerated it because she knew it would make him sad if she objected. 

The two men crouched beside her as she weaved her hands through the sloshing surf to catch the shells fluttering up from the deep, picking ones she liked to keep. She spent a good fifteen minutes there while the two looked on until Present Mic cleared his throat. 

“Eri, would you like to go swimming?” 

She straightened up, salty water dripping from her hands. 

“Oh, but I don’t know how to swim…” she said with a longing look out at the sea. It certainly looked fun and refreshing. She glanced back when Eraserhead chuckled and patted her on the head. 

“Don’t worry. We have floats for you.” As he said it, Present Mic approached, blowing up the second of a pair of strange-looking inflatables of transparent red plastic. Eraserhead dipped them in the water before sliding them up her arms, nestling them near her armpits. She flapped her arms up and down, giggling at the weird feeling of the plastic rubbing against her skin, and then watched as Eraserhead straightened up and offered her his hand again. Eri’s heart hummed with happiness as she reached up to take it, marveling at how strong yet soft it felt. 

Even with all the people around, there hadn’t been a moment yet that Eri felt nervous because she always felt safe with Eraserhead. She wasn’t daunted in the least as he helped her wade out into the surf, the sand squishing beneath her toes and the salt spray lapping at her upper body and face because she knew that he’d never let her be dragged away. As she went deep enough to have to tip her head back, she lifted up her legs and began wildly kicking her legs. The floaties kept her buoyant on the waves, and she bobbed in a circle around his legs, occasionally bumping into him as she panted with effort. 

“I’m swimming!” she screeched with delight, laughing as a wave pushed her up against his thighs. Eraserhead smirked as he pushed her a foot away, keeping a hold of her ankle. Eri squealed as she rolled onto her back and drifted on the sloshing water. “Mic, Mic, look!” she called to the blond as he came wading out into the water, his long hair piled into a bun atop his head. At that moment, a wave crashed over the back of her head, drenching her entirely. 

“Ah! Eri, dear, are you all right?” Present Mic exclaimed and raced toward her at the speed of an Olympic swimmer. 

“Ugh, you’re such a mother hen,” Eraserhead grunted as he calmly tugged the sputtering and coughing Eri close. “You okay?” he then asked, eyebrows pinched together. Eri flipped her dripping silver bangs out of her eyes, blinking rapidly as the salt stung, and sucked in a breath. After gathering her thoughts, she began laughing happily. 

“I got wet,” she snickered. Present Mic deflated in relief before scooping her up to mount her on his shoulders. Her squeals of happiness bounded up to join the caws of the seabirds as Present Mic roared and charged the waves, kicking at them on the pretense of defending Eri from the sea. She clutched onto his head as she kicked her little feet too, although that high up, she could only nab some of the bubbly froth spraying up. 

After about an hour of playing in the water, Eri retreated back inland to build a sandcastle. They decorated it with the shells she found, as well as bits of kelp and some driftwood. Present Mic declared her the queen of the castle and slapped a seaweed crown on her head; it felt really gross and slimy, so she chucked it at him on instinct, and Eraserhead started guffawing when it slapped across Present Mic’s face like an enormous mustache. 

As she was watching a hermit crab scuttle across the sand, a large yawn split her face. She reached up to rub her eye with her knuckles, smearing sand and salt particles over her eyebrow. 

“Tired, kiddo?” Eraserhead asked with a lopsided smile. She nodded and stood up to toddle over and hug his legs. He affectionately tousled her hair, which was dry and tangly from the salty water. Present Mic came up behind her to wrap her in a pink floral-patterned towel, and Eraserhead picked her up to carry her to their chairs and umbrellas. As he reclined in one of the fold-out chairs with a long sigh, she snuggled into his neck, playing with the ends of his long black hair. 

“Did you have fun?” he asked as she smiled sleepily up at him. 

“Mhmm,” she nodded and then yawned loudly again. As she nuzzled into him, enjoying the way the scent of salt mingled with the smell of his cologne, she quietly asked, “Can we come again sometime?” 

“Sure.” 

“Can Deku and Lemillion come too?” 

“Sure. I’m sure they’d love to.” 

Satisfied, Eri closed her eyes, embracing the drowsiness threatening to overtake her system. She listened to the rhythmic roll of the waves and the rush of the wind and the squawks of the seabirds and the symphony of shouts and laughs riding the wind. It really was a beautiful sound. As she sank into the sweet twilight of sleep, she found herself reminded again of all the heroes who risked their all to save her from the deep dark of the underground yakuza compound. 

Thanks to them… I can listen to the beach anytime I want to. Thank you… My heroes…

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[kxllakxm]

Stephen King's IT (1990)

[jksenvs3000]

Relationship between art and perfectionism, and how it relates to nature.

Recently I started working on this project with a group of folks in Guelph, called F*ck Perfect. It works with you on a journey of self discovery and finding growth, or achieving whatever you want. They also break pre-existing notions set by society around art and perfectionism. We grow up feeling and learning that to do art, we need to be perfect, or the end goal is something perfect. It works towards breaking these notions and starting on a journey of creative risks.

Art Not Shame, Guelph- Fuck Perfect Workshops.

Ever since I started working on this workshop, I realized how many times when we are expected to do something, we try to be the best or feel like we failed. During lockdown (all the versions of it :D), I started working on a new type of art. I have done water-colour, acrylic, soft pastels, repairing jewellery, journalling, crochet, embroidery, craft, drawing, and what not! And every time I did something new, I would be too focussed on the end product- to make it beautiful and perfect. I never reflected on how the process made me feel, why was I doing it. By journalling for this workshop and later processing things, I realized that it was during the times that I was painting, I was processing my feelings with COVID-19, being isolated, struggling with work, and being burnt out. While I was stressing about making that piece perfect, I forgot about the fact that the process of making that piece of art (moving the brush on the canvas, needle on the cloth) was actually very therapeutic and was actually the best stress buster. 

The painting that I made through the university’s art stress buster series, December 2020- photo taken by me. 

Why am I talking about this when talking about nature interpretation? Something that I noticed while reading through multiple posts was folks fixation on “good art” by “great artists” can create feelings/connection with nature. I don’t think that is true. I think every small piece of art, made by anyone, can play a role in nature interpretation. While my favourite poem is by Oscar Wilde, I do enjoy the random rhymes that slip into conversations, and honestly its these rhymes and not poems by great poets that I remember with a smile on my face. I think every small piece of art- grainy/unfocused pictures, undeveloped music, a kid’s stick figure drawing, journal entry- literally anything that speaks to you, can be a great interpreter. You just have to allow yourself to appreciate it. 

As a way to incorporate this in my life, I took a little advice from my friend, and I no longer throw away art that does not look like what I wanted it to be. I used to call it mistakes, but now I just call them creative opportunities! I will paint over them or try to draw something with a black marker on them and integrate it together. Or, I just leave them as is, just cause they still remind me of the sunset I saw! Others might not see they same sunset as me, but I know what it means to me and what it remind me of. Hopefully, to others, it reminds them of something else they saw! In my small ways, I am fighting the urge to be perfect and embracing my imperfections. 

How do you think you could break the pressure to be perfect and embrace yourself?! 

[xlady-saya]

an unconventional crossing [fic]

Relationships: andrew and aaron, andreil, kateaaron

Summary: Aaron likes to believe he and Andrew have a lot more practice navigating their conversations now. And he’s right, mostly. But sometimes, challenges arise at the strangest times, and especially when their significant others are concerned.

In which Andrew and Aaron run into each other at the grocery store, and choose not to part ways.

Tags: twin bonding, lots of references to how they’re whipped af, discussions of past abuse/addiction 

Read on ao3!

Aaron is only a little bit ashamed that his first instinct is to run far away when he turns the corner and sees his brother standing there.

At first, he thinks he might be dreaming. It's past nine on a school night, and the brightness of the store burns his already tired eyes. The switch from the darkness outside to the stark white tile and fluorescent lights makes Aaron squint. His brother is more like a grainy, black smudge in front of him, and Aaron lingers on the double knots of Andrew's combat boots and the shiny item in his hand. Soup. A can of soup. That's also what Aaron needs.

For Katelyn.

And like that, Aaron remembers why he's here. In fact, he's pretty sure there's dried snot on his sleeve where Katelyn mistook him for a tissue. It's disgusting, but given the bookstore fiasco of last year—which Aaron has repressed and will take to the grave—it's not the grossest thing they've witnessed from one another.

In sickness and in health and all that...he guesses it still applies to boyfriend and girlfriend, too.

It's why he's here now, prepared to stock up their mediocre medical supplies. It does not explain why Andrew is here. He looks around a few times, then looks back, and expects to be alone in the aisle. But Andrew is still there. Holding soup.

The grocery store is practically empty apart from a few people picking up alcohol or extra junk food for studying binges, which only adds to the dream-like quality of it all. This is...not where he's used to seeing Andrew—this is not how he's used to seeing Andrew. Which is nonsensical, because everyone needs groceries.

He kinda just figured Andrew survived off chocolate.

He clamps down on the urge to leave; it's an old, pathetic need, and one he no longer wants to encourage. He freezes in place instead, and reflects. Classic, he thinks, rolling his eyes. Aaron hates how much he listens to Bee now, but with all the leaps and bounds he and Andrew have made, random things can still be hard to navigate.

Grocery store trips, he guesses, are included in that.

The habit of bolting whenever his brother is in the same room as him is not one he likes, but it's a knee jerk reaction he hasn't completely gotten rid of. A ghost, latched onto his back. But that's okay, because he's sure it's the same for Andrew too. The need to keep Aaron at a distance, when they've been doing the exact opposite.

He spends a lot of time with Andrew now, more than he'd probably admit if asked. They study together, silently—that hasn’t changed. But even now there's an occasional greeting or a mutual scoff when someone in the library is being annoying. Andrew will help Aaron review his exam flashcards, or Aaron will form a post with his hands so Andrew can flick paper goals. They play videogames with Neil and Katelyn, they have lunch together… Their sessions no longer feel like a chore.

Standing in this soup aisle, Aaron realizes he couldn't have asked for more, would've never asked for even a fraction of it a few years ago. Now he can't imagine his life without Andrew slotting into it somewhere, whether it be on miniature golf double dates or Nicky's failed family baking nights.

It's startling, but not unwelcome.

Still, it's odd to see his brother looking so...normal. Silly.

Aaron is aware now that Andrew is a regular person with fears and wants, just with unorthodox methods, different roots...but he can't help but always think of the cool, blank stare. He thinks of Andrew leaning against a wall, smoking, not giving anyone the time of day. Including Aaron.

Especially Aaron.

It takes him a second to remember the nerd who sulked after getting beaten in Mario Kart, or the one who apparently threw up after Disneyland from one too many churros.

(Neil told them that story).

He certainly doesn't think of the man who walked all the way back to the dorm because Neil sent him a crying emoji and a 'I cut my finger' text.

But that's the real Andrew, too. There’s always more underneath all the closed off, reserved portions laced with barbed wire. Andrew has finally allowed Aaron to see that.

This Andrew is, once again, a far cry from cool and collected. This Andrew looks tired, not as put together. He's wearing wrinkled jeans that clearly need a wash, Neil's hoodie (stained), and seems .2 seconds away from throwing the store's entire inventory into a dumpster fire.

The spell is only slightly broken, and Aaron catches himself smirking.

His brother glares at the can of soup like it offends him, reading the label before putting it back on the shelf and grabbing a different brand to see if it's anywhere closer to his standards. Whatever the hell those might be.

Unfortunately, dating Neil has made his brother even more perceptive than before. Probably because Neil can smell trouble from miles away, and then he goes and seeks out said trouble to jab at it with a metaphorical stick. The stick is just an endless stream of cuss words and insults.

Needless to say, Aaron isn't able to enjoy this comical sight for long.

Andrew's gaze darts over to where Aaron is standing at the end of the aisle, and Aaron can see the exact same reaction run through him. The tension seizes his brother like a snare, and there's that all too familiar step forward, like Andrew is ready to turn around and disappear.

But then he doesn't. Andrew remembers what Aaron does, and then it's gone.

What they didn't account for was the awkwardness. Again, they aren't trained for grocery store encounters.

Andrew doesn't exactly nod at Aaron, but he inclines his head just so and turns back to the soup, staring into some void Aaron can't see. He's not sure if it's an invitation, but it's as good as he's going to get.

Aaron's sneakers squeak on the tile and he stumbles, but ultimately ends up at the edge of his brother's bubble, staring at the soup right along with him.

Progress.

Aaron sighs and grabs Katelyn's preferred brand. It's the chicken soup with the extra big chunks of chicken and the flatter noodles. Katelyn likes them because they're 'chewier,' and Aaron just thinks it's weird. But what she wants, she gets, because how is he going to deny his sniffling girlfriend as she whines miserably in bed?

Come to think of it, they're probably here for the same reason. With how much Neil and Katelyn see each other outside of games and general Fox gatherings, it would be no surprise if they both came down with the same cold.

Which means they probably need the same things. Soup, cold medicine, tissues.

Aaron freezes as he glances at the soup, feeling his brother's imposing presence beside him. For someone so obsessed with not being noticed or talked to, Andrew doesn't do a good job of hiding. He's like a cliff or a mountain, steady and bulky. A road block.

Aaron should leave. He has what he needs, so he can move on. He doesn't have to wait for Andrew; they don't have to shop together.

But then why does it feel so weird to weakly wave goodbye?

Aaron raises his hand only to stop mid-motion, thwarted by his own thoughts. Andrew tracks the movement. God, this is even more awkward now. They aren't usually like this anymore.

Maybe it's because they've realized the same thing.

Here they are, both making sweetheart runs in the middle of the night. It should be mortifying, but part of it feels strangely natural.

Probably because there's always a comfort in knowing they're the same in this way.

They both have their suffering partners waiting for them, but despite that, Aaron doesn't know how to broach the subject.

Bee's words from some faraway session echo in his head: "It might help the both of you to try talking about your partners with one another under more casual circumstances."

Aaron nearly scoffs, just like he did then.

Yeah, sure. It's the one area they're not great at, and it’s easier said than done.

It's not that he hates Neil anymore, and he has his suspicions that Andrew's opinion of Katelyn is at least a calm respect, though he's not sure when or how it happened. They spend time together as a group, and, in some cases, separately.

Aaron will tutor Neil or help him through difficult game levels, or Katelyn will be the one to help Andrew with the snack runs when they go to the movies. It's...fine.

No, it's great.

Aaron just still has a hard time acknowledging it.

But this? This they don't do. They don't talk about Neil and Katelyn together unless it's for therapeutic purposes during their sessions, and even then it's caked in wariness.

Aaron wonders if they're afraid of ruining the progress they've made by unintentionally starting a fight, but he's never known Andrew to be that caring of those things.

Perhaps it's simply too vulnerable, too exposed, to show how much they care. Even when it's so obvious.

Aaron notices Andrew finally settles on one of the more premium soup brands, and yeah, alright. Painfully obvious.

Aaron has always pushed that piece of Bee's advice away, procrastinating, because surely it can't be that important. But it is.

Ugh. It probably is.

So this time, rather than avoiding it, Aaron figures he might as well show Andrew up by taking the first stride. Talking about Katelyn is easy. She's everything to him; he could wax poetic all day about her. He knows her class schedule, her favorite subjects, her dreams.

With that in mind, Aaron confidently spins the can around at the same time he opens his mouth in Andrew's direction, and smoothly says, "You know, Katelyn likes soup."

And what a stride he takes.

Fuck me.

“Uh. When she’s sick, I mean. And other times but—that’s why I’m here. Sick soup.” The can falls from his hands and he barely catches it in time. He doesn't think he could add that to his mortification without giving up and running out.

It wasn't a lie. She does like soup, even if it's the really disgusting kind, but it's not a fact that evokes any groundbreaking emotions. It certainly doesn't bridge the gap.

Andrew turns to squint at him in that way—the precursor to a full on dismissal. Aaron's not sure why he's even still here, but maybe now his respect for Aaron now extends to telling him off with words. Aaron braces for it.

He watches the exact moment Andrew opens his mouth to tell Aaron he doesn't care, but it never comes. It's rare to see Andrew hesitate; someone so methodical and cautious doesn't tend to question his thoughts when he's sure of them.

But Andrew stops, mouth hanging open for a beat too long before snapping shut.

And Aaron doesn't know what it is, doesn't feel like blaming it on the twin telepathy theory...

He just knows Andrew remembers, same as him. Probably better than him.

Andrew can hear Bee's advice too, far away and obnoxious, ringing in his head.

His brother turns back to the soup can, smoothly over the ridges under the bright blue label. Hm. No, can't be. His brother isn't that sappy.

A few moments pass where Aaron can't move, kept in place by some invisible orbit, waiting for...something. Just that alone makes it all so surreal; he never used to expect anything from Andrew.

Yet, Andrew keeps surprising him with how much more he's willing to do now. For Aaron. For both of them. His brother sighs eventually, staring at the shelf in front of him, and begrudgingly replies, "Neil won't even admit he's sick. He didn't want me to come."

It's stilted, clearly forced out, but Andrew did it. He returned the gesture. And if there's one thing Aaron knows about his brother, it's that it's the closest thing he's going to get to a chance. Excited for some inane reason, Aaron almost doesn't process the words. But oh, he gets it. Neil is so fucking ridiculous, Aaron can't stand him. It makes sense his 'I'm fine' routine would stretch to this, too. Aaron almost wants to see the state of him, fever high and unable to move without his sweat sticking to the blankets.

His face sours, and the instinctive insult creeps to the edges of his mouth. Andrew watches, waits for it, and Aaron nearly bites his tongue to stop himself. Being hostile to Neil is more playful nowadays, but it's still a reflex. If he does that here...part of him just knows whatever is happening will effectively be cut short.

He clears his throat, rocking on the balls of his feet and willing his glare to go away.

"That...sounds like him," Aaron forces out. It's the best he can do, but it probably still sounds judgmental.

God.

Why are they so bad at this?

"He's an idiot," Andrew replies with a nod, so softly it almost doesn't sound like him. Aaron almost scoffs. Here he is trying to be considerate, but Andrew scolds his own boyfriend anyways. Aaron should've known better than to bother.

He slides his gaze over to his brother again, and that train of thought effectively stops. There's a tightness in Andrew's jaw, and an antsy quality to his stance. Aaron replays the words, and realizes Andrew's voice is different from the usual monotone, the uncaring inflection. It would be neutral still, to most people, but Aaron can sense that it's laced with something strong, self-directed. His brother's hands tighten around the can with a vice grip, and Aaron should really be better at detecting Andrew's concern by now.

Suddenly, he gets it. "He didn't want me to come."

It must be grating for someone like Andrew, who despite the vibe he tries to give off, does nothing but look after his own. It's the worst with Neil, because his motivation is borne from an intense emotion Aaron can't even associate with their relationship. It's too much, too theirs. He feels uncomfortable trying to define it when he's never heard Andrew actually say the three words.

Still, it's all consuming. It's real.

Nauseatingly so.

And it must be particularly infuriating, because Andrew's need to protect Neil isn't the result of a deal at all. He wants to. Wow, he probably hates that he wants to.

It only gives Aaron some satisfaction; it is Neil they're talking about.

Andrew's frustrations bleed through the cracks a little more, and he harshly brushes a hand through his bedhead. "His cold is just going to get worse if he keeps it up."

Ah, so they're still sharing. Aaron can do that. It's a welcome distraction; he can only take so much of thinking about his brother's intimate relationship with the most infuriating person on the planet.

Aaron looks down at the tile, lining his feet up with the edge of the blocks as if he's walking a tightrope. "Katelyn tried to go to class this morning. She didn't want to miss her lecture," he says, and tries to act like it's no big deal. He sways a little, and swallows the lump in his throat, because these are not things he gives away to anyone. It's just as exposing; as soon as he'd found out, he'd walked her back to her dorm and helped her change into pajamas. She passed out almost instantly, her fever spiking. Too much care, too much worry. Aaron had paced the floor a good twenty minutes, debating an urgent care visit.

He's just as pathetic as Andrew, but he wouldn't dare stop if it means looking after Katelyn. He bites his lips and shrugs, as if it's not as emotionally revealing as it is. It probably doesn't work. "I was so mad. Uh, you know how it is."

No kidding—they both just accidentally revealed it. Aaron never thought 'hopelessly enamored' would ever be associated with his own feelings, much less Andrew's.

But there's really no other explanation with that one.

"Oh?" Andrew tilts his head, as if daring Aaron to continue. It's dangerous territory, but that's what they deserve for addressing an old therapy issue in the middle of a grocery store. They might know their feelings are the same, but verbally acknowledging how is a different matter.

So continue, Aaron does. Neither of them are getting out of this one.

Won't Bee be proud?

Petulantly, Aaron glares, and loses his balance on the wire. He promptly spirals down. "Yeah, well… You want to take care of Neil too, right?"

It's a dare, a provocation. It's also ill-advised, but he can't be more mature in every way. There's no way Andrew can refute it and have Aaron believe him. He's been trapped into the truth.

Andrew tenses and glares back, expressive for how much he tries not to be. Aaron is more used to that now too. On the subject of his striker, his brother can't keep up the expression. It melts back into a reluctant calm, and his sigh is relenting.

Right.

A store intercom rings above them, something about how they really need someone up on registers. It's grounding in a way; Aaron grabs a few more cans and stubbornly throws them into the basket by Andrew's feet.

They're in too deep at this point. This is now a joint trip, as painful as it may be. Andrew looks down at the basket, which as of now holds both their soup choices and a candy bar Andrew must've snagged along the way.

Andrew squints, looking back up at Aaron, and surprise, surprise...

"I need the extra strength cough syrup."

He avoids answering altogether.

Aaron sighs; he saw that coming, but Andrew's trapped himself unknowingly.

"That's more expensive, you know," Aaron says, a playful lilt to his tone.

Andrew glares, but he must admire Aaron somewhat for the payback, because he finally admits: "It's better for him, it's also the only one with the flavor he tolerates," Andrew grits out, and no amount of bravado can make that sound anything less than....oh, completely fucking whipped.

So, Andrew gives some more as a war prize. "I need the tissues with the lotion too."

Aaron suppresses his snort (also, for real, those can't be necessary), and dutifully leads them to the next aisle.

--

Andrew ends up convincing him that the lotion tissues are superior, so one point for him or whatever.

They still don't know how to do this, and they don't get a lot better at it over the course of the following forty-five minutes, but they continue dropping the most mundane facts in hopes it doesn't give too much away.

But it always does.

Andrew makes a sharp turn with the sole intention of making the basket stab Aaron in the knee, and Aaron kicks it in return. Then he realizes where they are, and the words pour like shots.

He wonders if it's a consequence of therapy, that he ends up flaying himself open for Andrew in the hopes that he'll be given honesty in return. He's learned that lately, it's more effective than he once thought.

"Katelyn...hasn't been drinking much lately," he starts slowly when they pass through the alcohol aisle. It's a far cry from the boring 'favorite color' facts he's been trading thus far, but it hits him like a blow. It's not that it hasn't been on his mind, he just hasn't had a chance to talk it out because...

Part of him kind of doesn't want to. The person he talks to is Katelyn, and he's not quite ready for this discussion.

But tonight's that kind of night.

The aisle is a shortcut, nothing more than a connector to the medicines on the far side, but Aaron falters. The brands and bottles all stir up confusing memories for him, some fun, some not so much. The colored glass warps his expression like liquor warps his mind, and his body is already swimming through molasses to keep up.

Mixing drinks with what he used to do was never smart, and Aaron's thankful he's where he is now. He's not so reckless, but he indulges from time to time. Katelyn used to also, but lately she's been finding more reasons not to. And that's okay. He's never pushed or questioned it, but he can't help but wonder. He pauses in front of the daiquiri mixes. Katelyn's favorite.

The action makes Andrew wait for him, regarding him from the end of the aisle for a long moment. Then, in another act that shouldn't surprise Aaron but does, Andrew comes back for him.

Aaron's closed throat feels less tight. What did he call Andrew earlier? A road block. No, maybe he's more like...a steel beam, every once in a while. Supportive, but it could crush him in an instant. It's not Andrew's intent, but he'll take it. "I know she's never been a drinker, but part of me thinks it's because she worries about me."

And there it is.

He's aware he should be angry, just a little. But he can't be, because the worry and judgment come from a place of honesty, commitment. Aaron won't say he hasn't had the same fear—the fear of falling back down a different hole of addiction. He's better now, more responsible. He couldn't imagine ruining their lives like that, but he and Katelyn are pragmatic people. He knows it's hard to keep control in those circumstances, to rise above once he's caught in the trap. It wouldn't be all his fault, but he's susceptible and they both know it. She would stand by him as much as she could, but Aaron's honestly not sure if he would want her to if it ever came down to that.

That's not fair, and that's why he's determined to not let it happen.

Katelyn's precaution, intentional or subconscious, is just her protecting him in return. It's what they need to work on, what they need to talk about, before it's twisted into a misunderstanding.

But revisiting old wounds is not what Aaron is good at. At least, not right away.

He's not expecting Andrew to say anything; it's not his business and his black and white worldview probably prevents him from seeing it that way. In his mind, Katelyn is in the wrong and that's all that matters.. If anything, Aaron expects that statement, but then—

"She shouldn't," Andrew says, nearly admonishing. Aaron's gaze snaps up, and Andrew glares at the bottles in front of him to avoid meeting his eyes. He'd usually grab that particular brand of whiskey, but today he doesn't. Then, after a moment: "Knowing her obnoxious levels of optimism, she's probably trying not to. But that's her problem."

Andrew’s words are strained, but no less meaningful. He doesn't do comfort, and that's not what this is. Aaron knows a few things in that moment; the first is that Andrew definitely does not agree with Katelyn. That's fine. He never asks his brother to understand everything about his relationship anymore. Aaron certainly doesn't understand parts of Andrew's. The second thing, arguably the aspect he cares about more, is that Andrew clearly knows something Aaron does not.

Andrew isn’t offering a pat on the back, only what he knows to be factual.

He feels involuntarily exposed this time, and forgets that sometimes it's simply the way it has to be to move forward. Aaron nearly growls. "How—"

But Andrew simply sends him a look that reads don't ask. Aaron should know the answer.

Neil.

It's been a while since Aaron has felt a sharp slap of disdain for the redhead, but it shoots through him in the moment before fizzling out. Of course. Why wouldn't Neil know? Why wouldn’t Neil confide in Andrew about it?

Aaron always liked to think it was a shared strength, that he and Andrew could trust their partners so completely, give or take some setbacks. But it seems this time he's the one lagging behind.

He glares at the floor. He doesn't know how to feel. Why Neil possibly knows about this issue before he gets to address it himself is something he wants to feel rage over, but he just can't. It's not like confronting Neil at the cabin or in the dorm hall. He doesn't have the energy, and he knows he doesn't want to.

It's not...like that anymore.

Just knowing Katelyn has someone to talk to is enough, because that only means eventually, she'll talk to him too. And can he blame her? Here he is, telling Andrew.

Andrew, who feels as much sympathy as a log on most days, is still trying his best to give Aaron the truth.

Leave it to Andrew to rip off the bandaid, and Aaron feels the sting. But he needed it. It's the only thing that reminds him it'll eventually be okay.

It's quiet for a few moments as Andrew looks back at the bottles, tracing the curvy scripts. There's a steadily building tension in his frame; at first, Aaron thinks it's repressed hostility towards Katelyn, but far from it.

Andrew's struggle to give in the same way is all too apparent in his words.

"Neil and I drink sometimes, just when we're together," Andrew forces out evenly. He reaches out to spin one of the security tags on a particularly large bottle of vodka, tracing the ears of the rabbit logo afterwards. Aaron flinches a little; he didn't know that. His brain catches up just enough, letting him know that Andrew is giving this to him in return for his own vulnerability, so he should at least listen. Flexing his jaw, Andrew's tone loses some of the smoothness. "Last time...something happened. With me. He's been hesitant ever since."

It sounds like Andrew is chewing glass, and Aaron knows better than to ask for an elaboration on the ‘what’ that happened. Hell, Andrew exposing the reason for his and Neil's weekend getaways is most likely more than Andrew wanted to share in the first place.

Andrew won't answer anything Aaron asks, but he reads into it enough. "You miss it," he says, and again it feels like they're on a level playing field.

Andrew glares his usual 'I don't miss anything' glare, but doesn't actually say the words. Instead, he turns back in the direction of the medicine aisle, and throws the words over his shoulder.

"I hate losing control," he states. "Neil is a reason I hate it less."

Translation: Yes, I miss it. But Neil is just as stupidly worried as Katelyn.

It goes unsaid that they ended up with worry warts for partners. Aaron gives up trying to analyze anymore; there are things about his brother and Neil that are impossible to grasp. But Aaron is learning more and more that their relationship has similar flaws to his own, that they have their own challenges to wade through.

And if one of them can manage, so can the other.

Aaron walks away from the aisle feeling less stuck—the quicksand around his ankles turns to water, easy to wade through.

He's not sure how many more of those confessions he's going to get, but he won't take them for granted.

Later, when they're passing through the candy section for Andrew's stockpile, the facts turn lighter. "Katelyn only eats the red starbursts, it's cute," he says, unable to hide his dreamy smile as he throws the red starbursts pack into the basket. She won't be able to taste them yet, but whatever, it'll be a welcome reward in a few days when her sniffles are gone.

Instead of the apathy and dismissiveness, Andrew holds the gummy bears in his hand at arm's length. Like they offend him. Aaron was wondering why he's even considering them. They're not even close to Andrew's usual brand of cavity inducers.

"Neil never finishes his gummy bears," Andrew says, and seethes a little over the word 'his.' Of course, it's Neil's fault that Andrew has to spend money on the bland treats Neil doesn’t even love. But Andrew puts them in the basket anyways. "Last time he was bored, so we built a fake set for them."

Aaron blinks, following after Andrew towards the registers. "Like...for a play?"

"It helped him study for his lit exam."

Somehow, it's impossible for his brain to conjure up an image of Andrew building a gummy bear Shakespeare set, but he supposes weirder things have happened. He wonders if Andrew indulges Neil by doing voices, or if he recites the lines in his normal dull monotone.

Aaron hides a smirk at the thought. "Nerds."

He takes them back to the medicine aisle last minute due to the guilt tripping from Andrew for buying the cheaper brand of cough syrup, and figures he might as well stock up on bandages too. Exy is a violent sport, and he's not quite sure why he plays it.

"Bandages are over there," Andrew says, pointing deliberately at where Aaron is clearly already looking. Dick. "Don't buy the cheap brand, they gave Neil a rash."

Aaron scoffs. "Guess you would know best, with how much your boy gets scraped up," he says, but he still listens. Once more, he notes that Andrew's suggestion is several dollars more. He really does spare no expense on anything, especially for his boy toy—boyfriend. Boyfriend.

"He's never as bad as the other person," Andrew remarks offhandedly, but Aaron gets stuck on the comment. Before, he used to not pay attention to anything Andrew said that didn't make sense to him, writing it off as unimportant. It's amazing what he can pick out now that he actually processes the words. In this case, it's thinly veiled praise for his violence-prone boyfriend.

Aaron's no idiot; Neil has to at least be somewhat capable at throwing a punch, and who knows what else.

It's appealing, watching someone you love trade blows. Aaron himself never fails to feel a rush of adrenaline and adoration when Katelyn rushes to his defense.

It would make sense for Andrew to enjoy watching Neil be his typical chaotic self. But for whatever reason, that logic doesn't compute with what he knows about Andrew's protective streak—especially where Neil is concerned.

And since he doesn't know how to put that all into words, he says: "I don't know how you don't kill anything that tries to touch him."

That's how he thought it worked, how he's seen it work. So why all the fuss about letting Neil fight his own battles, when it's clear it eats at Andrew like a vulture picking at his intestines?

Andrew regards him slowly, looking at him like he's grown two heads. Right, because Aaron is supposed to be able to parse through all their weird layers. He rolls his eyes.

"I will when he asks," Andrew responds calmly, and before Aaron can open his mouth he holds up a hand. "And he does."

Again, a warning laces his tone: don't ask.

Aaron huffs. Fine. He guesses he'll believe it for now. Come to think of it, he's been seeing less and less of Neil's insistence to handle shit on his own. Just the other week, he seemed to give up too easily when arguing with a jock from another team, and Andrew had stepped in a moment later.

He had thought Neil looked a little too happy about that.

Tracking him still, Andrew shrugs in such a careless way that he'd think Neil had taken over his body. "I know he doesn't need it. And yes, it's annoying."

Aaron's not so sure. It's scary how Andrew can read his mind sometimes, can connect the dots of the intricate roadmap between them. He sees things from a distance, sees it all, while Aaron is the one who forces them to actually zoom in and take in the landscape. Piece by piece, he forces them to explore.

"So why do it?" he asks, frustrated, but Andrew only picks up the blue can of chicken noodle and waves it in Aaron's face.

"Soup."

Fine, don't tell me.

He figures this is just Andrew's way of saying he's done with the abnormal sharing for the night, but then he realizes. Soup. Motherfucking soup? Aaron had said—

"You want to take care of Neil too, right?"

Son of a bitch. Does Andrew always have to be so cryptic and non-linear?

That's the explanation. It's the obvious one, the one Aaron could already infer. But the confirmation is staggering. Andrew wants to protect Neil; more than that, he likes to. That's the difference. He never would've admitted that before. It doesn't matter how capable Neil is or how appealing it is to see him fight. At the end of the day, they both have some weird thing about it.

Aaron feels nauseated. He’s learned too much. Again.

"Is that really so hard to say, Andrew?" Aaron huffs the next moment though, so he guesses he must be more upset than he thought. "You know, I'm trying here."

He only has so much tolerance for his brother's ways. He can detect them better now; he can see the ins and outs. But sometimes it's tiring. Sometimes he wants to be given things in the same straightforward way he gives them. It's childish, it's selfish, but fucking hell, Aaron isn't perfect. He knows it won't happen, but if they're still being truthful, then Aaron can at least let Andrew know that it's hard sometimes.

It's hard to do this, but it's worth it. So he won't stop. Andrew just has to put up with his bitching every now and again.

At 10 p.m., he's reached his limit.

Andrew beats him to it, throwing up a barrier for Aaron's rage to smash into and fizzle out into nothing. "Are you going to scream your undying love for Mrs. Minyard to me, then?" he asks, and Aaron jumps back. Andrew's anger simmers, barely, but his words are cutting. "I am trying too."

They've both been trying so damn hard the past year. And for what?

Well—for a lot, actually. They've certainly gained more than they've lost.

And like that, Aaron's made Andrew give more than he was maybe willing to tonight. The guilt sits somewhere in his gut, but he can't regret it. Because Andrew still confessed. Andrew still held out his hand, just a little. Like he's been doing for months.

Aaron can't begin to imagine how horrible it must be, for someone like his twin to acknowledge the effort he's putting in. It sounds ridiculous, but Aaron should get it better than anyone right? That it's hard to admit you have faith in something when not much in your life ever lasted before.

Taming his own outburst, Aaron clenches his fists at his sides. Slow, measured. "I know, but—"

"You're suddenly so hung up on listening to Bee, what happened to her affinity for patience?" Andrew says, nearly mocking, but Aaron knows it's not some flippant comment. He means it. He's telling Aaron to back off, and while he respects it most days, he feels too close to a revelation to listen.

This is never easy, and it shouldn't be. Not for them. They always knew that, even before they were fully convinced they could get any farther than silent videogame marathons and nods from across the room. Before they thought they would ever keep in touch past college.

Now, Aaron knows there's no way they won't. They're just...fighting. They're having a typical, moronic squabble. It's not a setback, it's not a threat. Aaron has to repeat that over and over in his head, and it somehow makes snapping back less menacing.

"Asshole," he bites out. "You just want to get out of it. You know it's...it's fine to just say those things, it's—"

"Normal?" Andrew asks, and yup, that's definitely mocking. Aaron's not sure what that means, what's in Andrew's head about the word or Aaron's connection to it, but it doesn't matter.

"Yes," Aaron says with a laugh, disbelieving. He paces to the end of the aisle and back. He knows he's just as thick headed, and that's what hurts the most. Embarrassing. "It's normal to just admit you think your dumb boyfriend is cute, and talk about him because to be honest, it's obvious already how much you want to!"

It's potentially unfair; he never expects normalcy from Andrew. He doesn't want it anymore, apart from getting to act like brothers and argue without the fear of exploding and fucking up everything. Aaron wouldn't dare ask Andrew to be normal in any situation, but this is different. He's not saying it's normal or necessary for society's standards, or because other people do it. He's saying it's fucking normal because Andrew wants it to be. Hell; Aaron's been watching his twin bite his tongue and keep back details from Aaron all night. No shit, Andrew will never share the private feelings—the ones he keeps close, just between himself and Neil. But goddamn, if he wants to tell Aaron about Neil's weird gummy bear Macbeth monologue, he should just go for it.

For a while, Andrew stands there, tight lipped, until finally: "I don't care what's normal." For a brief moment, Aaron thinks he's lost this round, that the point escaped Andrew completely. But his twin is smart. Stubborn, and infuriating too. But smart. With a sigh, Andrew relents, though not without resistance in his voice. "I care...that it's us."

Aaron holds his breath, waiting for Andrew to refute it or storm away. But he doesn't, and Aaron can exhale.

Yes, duh. Neil and Andrew...no one will ever mistake them for anything remotely close to normal. They've built their own version of it though, and Aaron only hopes that in time Andrew can expand the definition to include this. That he'll be able to indulge himself however he wants, like Aaron does with Katelyn. That he'll be able to talk about Neil without worrying about how it reveals his feelings. Because Andrew hates sharing Neil, but he wants to trust Aaron enough to offer bits and pieces.

And Aaron wants to do the same. It's been a rough first attempt, but an attempt regardless.

And anyways, Aaron won't tell him tonight, but one day he's really going to have to let his twin know...

Andrew's feelings haven't been well hidden for a long time.

Until then, they have to deal with the awkwardness they created, standing in silence as an old lady walks through the aisle and regards them warily.

They should've saved this for their session. Whoops.

Pathetically, for the sake of doing something, Aaron grabs a thermometer (he needs one of those, right?) and throws it into the basket. Awesome.

In return, since that's the glorious theme of the night, Andrew tosses in some bandaids. The patterned ones. They're pink and cutesy, and make him think of Katelyn, wrapped in her fluffy pink towel after yet another hot shower to clear her sinuses.

He doubts Neil is faring better. They should get back.

At the thought of Katelyn, Aaron smiles. It brings him back to something softer Andrew said, though just as peculiar. He never fails at that.

"Why do you call her that?" Aaron asks, breaking the silence. It's gentler this time, less of a shatter and more of a push. When Andrew blinks, Aaron waves his hand. "Mrs. Minyard."

It gives Aaron a funny feeling in his chest, not necessarily good but also not bad, and he pushes it away to deal with another time.

Andrew's expression gives nothing away. That’s always the case, but even more so this time. It's blank, but he blinks slowly, chewing on his words in the way Aaron hates. Well, he supposes no one can quit cold turkey.

"A feeling," Andrew answers, and doesn't elaborate. He looks down at his own hand for a moment too long, flexing his fingers, then turns away like it's nothing. Aaron doesn't have enough braincells left to figure out what the fuck it's all about.

"Come on, let's go," Andrew says. Aaron feels like after all that, he has to put himself out there at least once. He has to prove to Andrew it's okay. It's okay to do this and trust him with this, so he'll believe in Andrew too.

"I do. Love her, I mean," Aaron says, mumbling the statement petulantly. He's a natural grump. It’s unavoidable. However, when Andrew turns back, he clears his throat. He can't say this without enthusiasm, without conviction. It's just not possible. He thinks of Katelyn's sugary sweet smiles, the croak of her voice after she cheers him on too hard. He thinks of it all—of tears staining his sweater, of being held while shedding his own. He thinks of calloused hands, rife with paper cuts from too many study guides, and the way she whispers each goodbye, because she secretly hates them. All of that and more, too much to contain in the word, but he tries. "I love her so much, it feels like saying it cheapens it somehow. I...don't usually, unless we're alone. But I do."

And it's humiliating to say to this person—his brother, someone who he's always held at an emotional distance. But he can't hope to bridge this gap any other way; he can't hope for more of Andrew's steps forward if he doesn't take his own.

It's a formula they're familiar with now. It's one he hopes they never stop using.

And just when he thinks it's for nothing, Andrew nods. Once, subtly, but he does.

"I understand," he offers, and there's a heaviness to the statement Aaron doesn't get. But it's enough. He wants to tell Andrew it's enough, but Andrew meets him halfway. "Neil told me people don't have to say it, if they know it's true. He's infuriating like that, but he's right about people's idiocy."

Aaron has a feeling 'people' is being used as a stand in there, but he doesn't comment. He's well aware he doesn't have to say it, that saying it changes nothing about how he feels. But—

"I guess he's right for once," Aaron comments lazily, and throws Andrew a smug smile. "But I still want to."

He likes to. And that's all there is to it, sometimes.

So if you one day want to, I'm all ears.

Even if it's not the three words, if it's just some offhand comment about Neil's fighting skills, or where he and Andrew went on a date...he'll listen.

It'll be gross, but he's got plenty more anecdotes to throw back. He despises admitting when Bee is right, but he'll give her credit this time.

They have their people, and they should be able to talk about them.

Andrew rolls his eyes, but stubbornly keeps his gaze fixed forward. "Don't give him that much credit," he mutters, and no, Aaron wouldn't dream of it.

They don't mean to sync up their steps as they walk. It just happens.

--

"Oh, hang on," Aaron says out of the blue as they stand in line. He's thankful he has some control of his reflexes, as he almost smacked Andrew in the arm. They aren't there yet.

But nevermind that. Priorities. Next to them is a toy stand, one of those three tier ones grocery stores always put near the registers because little kids can't resist hounding their parents for one. This one in particular has a good selection of tiny stuffed toys, and Aaron spies his jackpot almost immediately.

It's a spotted, light pink kitten with giant eyes. It's soft, and so absurd looking. Whoever designed it probably tried to think of everything cutesy they could before sewing it onto the plush. In short, it's the kind of sappy, adorable thing Katelyn will love.

Proudly, he picks it up and holds it in front of him like he's a genius. He sort of is.

He's not sure he's ever seen his brother look so disgusted in his life, which is saying quite a lot. Aaron's smugness increases.

God, it's minuscule. It fits in his hand perfectly. If he's lucky, Katelyn will squeal even through all the snot.

He's not sure why Andrew decides to humor him. He must be in a better mood than Aaron thought, since he eventually asks: "Why?"

Aaron is all too happy to explain. He holds the kitten up to Andrew's face as if tempting a rabid rottweiler.

"Ah—what? It's cute. Katelyn loves stuff like this," he explains, but his next words have a softer edge. It happens against his will, and he blames it on Katelyn entirely. Knowing this ridiculous thing will bring her some joy is more than worth the twelve dollar price tag. "It'll make her feel better. Like a gift, ever heard of one? I've seen Neil's growing wardrobe. He's not buying his own clothes."

Andrew's expression sours further, but he doesn't fight the statement right away. He should know he can't. The clothes are only one example; Aaron's also seen the jewelry and various fox-themed knick knacks Neil has lying around. Idiot.

Instead, Andrew bats the kitten away. “Clothes are required, especially when you live out of one bag your whole life," he comments, but it doesn't expose him any less. From the smug grin on Aaron's face, Andrew must sense it. He points at the kitten harshly. "That, however, is pointless."

Aaron's grin falls, but he's unwilling to give up. Andrew obviously doesn't see the full picture in this case. He holds the kitten close to his chest. While he normally hates these things too, it's been designated as a gift for Katelyn.

Therefore, it's sacred.

"It's adorable. Katelyn will go nuts over it, and I'll take sick kisses over no kisses," Aaron points out, and delights in the moment Andrew tenses. Haha. "You're only hurting yourself."

"Never thought I'd hear that in this context," Andrew mutters, but turns back to the stand with significantly less annoyance.

Aaron is having too much fun.

"I'm just saying, Neil would probably hate this shit on its own..." he adds, and leaves the rest unsaid. The implication is clear. Neil could give a rat's ass about gifts and stuffed toys. But coming from Andrew?

He'd probably burst, like a loser. And whether or not Andrew likes to admit it, it's a weakness. He can't resist evoking that reaction from his jock boyfriend.

Still, he tries. "Neil would never be interested in this," Andrew says, and reaches out to grab one of the toys roughly. It's a little stuffed lamb with snow white wool, and it’s even smaller than the kitten. In Andrew's large, murderous hands, it almost seems to be crying out to Aaron for help.

Andrew stares at it for an impossibly long time, and then it's their turn. Aaron takes the basket from Andrew's stalled hands and tries not to make any wheezing sounds from how heavy it is. Andrew was carrying that shit for an hour?

"Well, how would you know?" Aaron throws over his shoulder as he dumps the contents onto the conveyor belt. He looks at the lamb, at how stupid it looks, and wonders when he himself got so soft. He's not sure what it's a consequence of, but it doesn't feel bad.

No reason to question it.

Andrew turns to him and arches a brow, and Aaron delivers his final punch.

"Neil's probably never had a stuffed animal before," he remarks, doing his best to impersonate Neil's shrug. The ones Allison has tried to force on Neil in the past don’t exactly count. Then, because they share the asshole trait, Aaron adds: "I mean, living out of a bag and all."

And oh, Andrew's glare could send their world as they know it straight to the depths of hell. He squeezes the lamb in a death grip, but notably doesn't let go.

Aaron's spine tingles from Andrew's intense, vengeful stare on the back of his neck as the cashier rings them up, but whatever revenge he gets will be worth it. He figures it can't be too bad when Andrew offers him a ride home, and the silence is more peaceful than anything else.

They walk to the dorms with the stuffed animals pressed under their elbows. If they both end up sick a few days later, neither of them choose to bring up the cause.

[cutiecrates]

Cutie Reviews: Sakuraco March 21

I’m so sorry anyone who was waiting for this DX after getting it I realized that I should take a day or two enjoying everything, rather then opening it all at once. I got it Tuesday so my goal was to get it up Wednesday, then Thursday.

So then wouldn’t you know, when I got to begin working on this the first time, my laptop decides it don’t want to cooperate. Anyway, it seems to be fine again so we’re going to get into this. I hope you’re excited!

For anyone who might be unfamiliar with the blog, or hasn’t seen my post covering this new branding. Sakuraco is by the popular Japanese-themed series of subscription boxes from Tokyo Treat. What makes this different from their normal snack box, is that this one is more focused on the local unique items that you usually wouldn’t see outside of Japan, elegant snacks for tea, pastries, pretty utensils, and so on.

As a reminder, I was given an offer that grants me a bonus of 4 items. These seem to range to unique items and some repeats of the box content.

“Over the past year, our team has worked hard preparing Sakuraco and we are eager to finally share our hard work with you! While this year has been full of challenges for many, we hope to bring you a moment of indulgence and cultural discovery that you’ll look forward to every month.“

Before I get into the contents I wanted to take a moment to go over the book. It’s really thick, which made me start theorizing that this could be why the other brand booklets became thinner around this time last year. You might have seen me comment on that in some reviews.

Inside the book you get a greeting page, and a page featuring the team who worked on the box. We get pages covering the items in the box, the month’s theme and various special things about Japan; such as a page on Niigata prefecture, and pages related to Hanami/Cherry Blossom Viewing. Lastly, there is the photo contest page, and some social media stuff. The book also covers the makers of the items, if they are Vegetarian friendly, and have any allergens.

Sweet Sakura Tea

Our first two items are tea drinks, one was a bonus however, so I won’t be going into detail as I can’t exactly tell what it was supposed to be. This one however, was one of the main vocal points of the box, and very exciting! This tea only requires this pickled sakura/cherry blossom flower and very hot water. As you combine the two, the flower opens and you’re free to drink it. You can also re-use the flower to bake with if you wanted.

This tea comes from Japan Green Tea Center in Tokyo. This is vegetarian and includes no allergens.

♥ 

I hope I don’t offend anyone, but I didn’t like this. I mean, I don’t like tea very much to begin with but this doesn’t even taste like tea- it tasted like the salty water I throw together and gargle with when I have mouth work done, or throat soreness. It was really pretty to watch/try, but it’s taste isn’t for me. I guess I just have an immature palette.

Sakura Konpeito

In this box, we’ll also be seeing some items exclusively made for/by it. This was our first of those items, little konpeito (sugar candies resembling little stars, those things Mario collects in the Mario Galaxy series). These are by Sasaki Confections, veg friendly and no allergens.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

You’ve tried one basic konpeito, you have tried them all. I like how these ones are smaller though, and their colors are so pretty~

Sakura Monaka & Strawberry Castella

I decided to only name the items the box  is supposed to have, rather then add in the names of the bonus items. The reason this plate looks so full is because the Monaka came in 2 shapes, and the small pink thing is a bonus item. It’s a little piece of mochi, I think specifically ohagi. It’s small and the very cute, it was also fun to squish both in and out of the package :D I’m not sure about the flavor, it seems to be plain/sugary, but there’s a hint of something vaguely like coconut.

Next up is the baby Dorayaki nearby. Not much to say, it was very basic with red bean filling, just several times smaller than normal.

 - - - -

Next up, the Monaka, which as I said above came in 2 shapes and features a cute print resembling a cup or bowl with a brush used to whisk matcha. This one’s by Ito Confectionery in Nagano, veg friendly, no allergens. Filled with red bean, it has notes of sakura and a thin, melt in your mouth pink wafer outside.

♥ ♥ ♥ 

I like the taste of wafer, which is pretty non-existent. These are especially soft and melty, they stick to your lips a little. I can’t really confirm the scent of the sakura (my nose isn’t very reliable <3< it only works some times), but the red bean filling is very tasty, so I’d like to say it’s in there. I usually don’t entirely enjoy red bean, but it didn’t bother me here.

- - - -

The castella is a thin cake-like sandwich usually filled with cream, in this case strawberry! This is by Nisshindo Confectionery in Nagano, veg friendly, but it has soybeans, milk, egg, and flour in it. The cake itself is made from brown sugar, and it has a very light, airy texture.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

It seems kind of plain/basic when you look at it, and you don’t really get much cream. But it was still tasty in a gentle, delicate kind of way. Some people might say it’s underwhelming, but it offers a nice contrast to the other contents and you can still taste the cream. 

Sakura Madeleine, White Peach Castella, & Uji Matcha Castella

(sorry for the lighting, it was the next morning when I took this picture)

The madeleine comes from Ebisu Confectionery in Osaka. Veg friendly, but it has the same allergens as those listed above. You can see an image of it opened in the next pic, but I’ll talk about it here. It has sakura extract worked into the dough prior to baking. It resembles a muffin, or non-decorated cupcake.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

I actually can’t remember this one in exact detail, but I know I liked it. It offered that hint of Sakura in a good way, and had a fluffy texture.

- - - -

These other two are another type of Castella Cake, which basically resemble a slice of plain cake. One is made from matcha/green tea, while the other is white peach. Both come from Ash Food Confectionery, located in Okayama. Both veg friendly, but they have the same allergens already listed, plus peach. 

The matcha cake features a red beans baked into the dough, while the white peach uses peach puree.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Both were very delicious x3 the cake was soft and moist, they tasted very fresh. I’m not big on green tea but I didn’t hate that one at all, I LOVED the peach one a lot though. It was sweet and the peach flavor was very noticeable. I’d recommend it out of the two, but both were winners in my book :3

Strawberry Dorayaki & Sakura Strawberry Crepe Roll

The madeleine ended up here because I completely forgot I already took it’s picture. I reviewed it above, so just try to ignore it’s presence here. Also, the plate you see being used was included with the box :3 isn’t it lovely~?

I’ll start with the crepe as there isn’t much to say, it’s in the packaging beneath the other two. It was all broken apart so I left it in the pack until I wanted to eat it. It comes from Nakajima Taishodo in Osaka, veg friendly, typical allergens. It has sakura worked into the batter to provide scent, and thin strawberry filling prior to being rolled up.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

Broken or not it still tasted good. The flavoring was light but noticeable, so I enjoyed it.

- - - -

Our dorayaki comes from Hiyoshi Confectionery in Shimane, featuring the semi-sweet, pancake-esque treat (another type of castella) with strawberry jam and red bean filling. Veg friendly, features flour and egg allergens.

The booklet suggests eating this with the sakura tea as it should enhance the flavors of the filling.

♥ ♥

It’s on the dry side, not enough to make someone choke. The pancake outside has a faint maple scent and it’s not very sweet, and I can’t really say I was a big fan of the filling. It only tastes like red bean to me, I couldn’t notice any sign of strawberry.

Peach Sandwich, Red Bean Taiyaki, & Sakura Mochi Monaka

Our first snack comes from Bankokuya in Kagoshima, veg friendly, typical allergens; but oddly, no peach allergen. There is traces of alcohol in it though, which I didn’t even notice. It’s a simple, cake-like sandwich filled with peach cream.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The cake outside has a grainy, sugary texture which I wasn’t a huge fan of. But the cake is soft and the peach filling was sweet and fluffy~

- - - - -

Next up is a Monaka with mochi filling, from Tenkei Confectionery in Nagano. Veg friendly, includes egg. The monaka wafer is filled with a red bean mochi flavored with sakura petals baked inside,

♥ ♥ 

For as much as I like unique textures, I found this to be... too unique for me. The combination of crispy wafer didn’t go with the soft and squishy mochi inside. The mochi wasn’t my favorite either, but it wasn’t bad.

 - - - - -

Our last item here is another Sakuraco exclusive, a red bean taiyaki created by Haraya in Shimame. Veg friendly, typical allergens. Taiyaki is a fluffy, soft snack similar to the dorayaki (minus the maple flavoring), which is usually filled with red bean, cream, or chocolate. There’s even a special pan one can purchase in order to make them, and they are very popular.

♥ ♥ ♥ 

It’s soft and maybe a little dry, but I was mainly impressed with the detail on it, given how small it is. It’s really cute x3 Again, I’m not the biggest fan of red bean, and this was filled with it. So if you like it, you’d probably love this, but if you never tried it before or are like me, it’s sort of a meh thing. 

Sakura Senbei, Sakura Shrimp Senbei, & Sakurasen Cracker

Believe it or not, but we do get some savory items in here too! I love rice, especially when it’s in senbei form like this. These are each made by different companies and locations, so let’s start with the mini-sakura, shall we?

These are by Sakurado Confectionery in Niigata, and surprisingly are not veg friendly- because they include shrimp, flour, soybeans, and gelatin. They include soy sauce flavoring.

♥ ♥ ♥

Besides being really cute, they were pretty good. I wanted to love these and thought I would... but there is a shrimpiness that I could identify even without knowing it was in them. I used to like shrimp but for some reason I can’t stand it now. It bothered me a little, but it wasn’t a deal breaker.

- - - - -

Our rounded senbei comes from Sugi Confectionery in Aichi. It’s not veg friendly, and is made from flour, soybean, and squid. It has a mellow flavor and is a season limited edition item for Spring only, featuring the taste of Sakura.

The sakura-shaped senbei is from Kanazawa Kenroku Confectionery in Mie. Contains shrimp, not veg friendly.

♥ 

I felt the same way about both of them honestly. I tasted the fishiness so I really couldn’t tolerate them very much. Especially the round one, it’s crunch bordered on being unpleasant for me, but I loved the puffy-crunch of the other one. While they weren’t my favorites of the box, my mom (an avid seafood lover) liked them, in fact I think they perked her up a little that day when I gave them to her. She returned from chemo and was pretty hungry. 

Yoshino Kuzamochi

I saved this item for last because I was the most excited for it! This one comes from Nakajima Taishodo again. Kuzamochi is like a stiff jello, usually with little taste that you enhance using things such as a caramel, maple, or brown sugar sauce and/or kinako powder, which tastes a bit like peanut butter in my opinion. It contains soy beans (you roast them to get kinoko powder), and is veg friendly.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

I know it doesn’t look very aesthetically pleasing (I made a little heart on top though~) but it tastes so yummy! The plain kuzamochi didn’t have much flavor, but adding both the sauce and kinako really adds to it. The brown sugar makes it sweet, while the kinako adds a gentle, toasty earthiness. The texture might be a little off-putting to some, given it’s jello-ish consistency, but I loved it.

Opinions

Content - 3 out of 5. One thing was broken but otherwise everything was great. I did have a couple of items I didn’t particularly like the taste of but it was so exciting to try everything! 

Theme: 4.5 out of 5. It was an elegant feeling box, by that I mean, seeing all the flowery inspiration and items. It was kind of nice how the first box they made actually matched up with the name, but that was probably just a coincidence. There was a couple of items that didn’t fit the theme, but that’s a bit trivial.

Total Rank: 8 out of 10 Cuties. For the first box, I thought it was just lovely. As I said, I had some complaint over taste but you can’t please everyone. I was so excited to get this box, everything was fun to try, and I love learning more about Japan so I appreciate how full our booklet is x3 I can tell they put a lot of effort into making this box, so I can’t wait to see what else they have in store for us!

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 6, Number 8

Angel Olsen

Now half a year in the pandemic, we’re starting to see the emergence of quarantine records, whether in the trove of reissues hastily assembled to stand in for new product or home recorded projects made with extremely close friends and family or albums that are conceived and written around the concept of isolation. Music isn’t real life, exactly, but it lives nearby. And in any case, it’s still music and can be good or bad whether it’s been unearthed from a forgotten box of tapes, recorded at home without collaboration or side people or technologically gerry-rigged so that distanced partners can work together. So, as long as you all are making music, we will continue to listen and find records that move us, as the world burns all around. This edition’s contributors included Patrick Masterson, Andrew Forell, Tim Clarke, Jennifer Kelly, Bill Meyer, Jonathan Shaw, Justin Cober-Lake and Ray Garraty. Enjoy.

+ — #playboy (Deluxe Edition) (self-released)

#playboy (deluxe edition) by +

One of the most genuinely confounding records I’ve heard this year comes courtesy SEO-unfriendly artist + aka Plus Sign fka Emanuel James Vinson, a Chicago rapper, city planner and all-around community activist who spends his time helping with the city’s Let’s Build Garden City initiative when he’s not making music (which is frequent, by the way — take a look at the breadth of that Bandcamp discography). The concept with #playboy, originally released in April but deluxed in late May, is simple: Two kids find a music machine called #playboy in their basement and start tinkering with it. Its childlike whimsy is conveyed in the song titles (“Getting the Hang of It,” “Wake Up Jam (Waking Up)”) every bit as much as it is in the music, with occasionally grating indulgences, the odd earworm and a brief appearance by borderless internet hip-hop hero Lil B that makes perfect sense in context; the kindred spirit of that community-building cult auteur is strong here. You may wind up loving this record or you may wind up hating it, but I can promise you this: You’ll be thinking about it and the artist behind it long after it’s over.

Patrick Masterson

 Actress — Mad Voyage Mixtape (self-released)

I once suggested Darren Cunningham mucks about with his music because he can’t help himself. That was about six years ago on the occasion of his purported “final” album Untitled; with the benefit of hindsight, we can see he was (like so many others, to greater or lesser consequence) just pulling our leg with that PR. Hell, he’s released two albums worth of music in July alone: The first was the mid-month surprise LP 88, which follows in the vein of his acclaimed high period as an often brilliant, occasionally frustrating patchwork of submersible beats best played at high volume with a low end. The second came at the end of the month in an m4a file shared the old fashioned way on a forum via Mediafire link, nearly an hour and a half long, and per the man himself, “All SP-303, sketchbook beats, recorded this past week [the first week of July] straight to recorder or cassette.” It feels very much like a homespun Actress mixtape and is probably best thought of as livelier accompaniment to 88 but, even still, there’s no noticeable drop in quality — once Actress, always Actress. If headier lo-fi beat tapes are your beat, this will slot comfortably in line.

Patrick Masterson

  bdrmm - Bedroom (Sonic Cathedral)

Hull five-piece bdrmm play a satisfyingly crepuscular version of shoegaze on their debut album Bedroom. Ryan Smith, his brother Jordan on bass, guitarist Joe Vickers, Danny Hull on synths and drummer Luke Irvin combine the widescreen sound of Ride with a cloak of gothic post-punk. Like the late, lamented Girls Names, bdrmm find a sweet spot where atmosphere and dynamics either build to euphoric crescendos or bask in bleak funereal splendor. Bedroom seems deliberately sequenced from celebration to lament. “A Reason To Celebrate” evokes Ride at their most anthemic, the tripping staccato driven “Happy” summons the spirit of The Cure of Seventeen Seconds before the pace drops for the second half, the songs become quieter and darker as the band finds a more personal voice. “(The Silence)” is an ambient whispered wraith of a thing, “Forget The Credits” impressively mopey slowcore. bdrmm don’t always transcend their influences, but this debut is an atmospheric treat if your taste runs to the darker end of the musical buffet.

Andrew Forell  

 Circulatory System — Circulatory System (Elephant 6 Recording Co.)

Circulatory System by Circulatory System

Nearly 20 years after its initial release, the excellent eponymous debut album by Will Cullen Hart’s psychedelic chamber-pop band Circulatory System gets a long overdue vinyl reissue. While his previous project, the undeniably great Olivia Tremor Control, tended to lean more towards classic psych-pop’s traditional tropes �� hard-panned drums, loads of disorientating tape effects, wonky harmonized vocals — Circulatory System taps into something utterly uncanny. Both Signal Morning (2009) and Mosaics Within Mosaics (2014) have their moments, but this is front-to-back brilliant, conjuring a sublime atmosphere of reflective estrangement. The music is a thick, grainy soup of shimmering instrumentation, from the eerie (“Joy,” “Now,” “Should a Cloud Replace a Compass?”) to the joyful (“Yesterday’s World,” “The Lovely Universe,” “Waves of Bark and Light”), but part of the album’s magic is the way everything flows into a seamless whole. As is vinyl’s tendency, the rhythm section really comes alive here, the fuzz bass and tom-heavy drum parts booming out, with plenty of vivid details in the mix swimming into view. A worthy reissue of an essential album.

Tim Clarke

 Cloud Factory — #1 (Howlin’ Banana)

Cloud Factory #1 by Cloud Factory

Cloud Factory, from Toulouse, France, overlays the serrated edges of garage pop with a serene dream-pop drift. It’s an appealing mix of hard and soft, like being pummeled to death by pillows or threatened gunpoint by a teddy bear. “Amnesia,” for instance, erupts in a vicious, sawed off, trouble-making bass line, then soars from there in untroubled female vocals. Later, “No Data,” punches hard with raw percussion, then lays on a liquid, lucid guitar line that encourages middle-distance staring. None of these songs really up the ante with memorable melodies, sharp words or that intangible R’NR energy that distinguishes great punk rock from the so so. Not loud, not soft, not great, not bad. Cloud Factory resides in the indeterminant middle.

Jennifer Kelly

 Entry — Detriment (Southern Lord)

Detriment by Entry

Nuthin fancy here, folks. Just eight songs — plus a flexing, fuzzing intro — of American hardcore punk. Entry has been grinding away for a few years now, and Detriment doesn’t advance much past the musical terrain the band marked off on the No Relief 7-inch (2016). That’s OK. The essential formula is time tested: d-beat rhythms, overdriven amps and Sara G.’s ferocious vocals delivering the necessary affect. That would be: pissed off, just this side of hopeless. Detriment sounds like what might happen if Poison Idea (c. 1988) stumbled into a seminar on Riot Grrrl; after everyone got tired of beating the living shit out of one another, they’d make some songs. “Selective Empathy” is pretty representative. Big riffs, a breakdown, and more than enough throaty yelling to let you know that you’re in some trouble. You might recognize the sound of Clayton Stevens’ guitar from his work with Touché Amoré — but maybe it’s better if you don’t. This isn’t music for mopery. Watch out for the spit, snot and blood, and flip the record.

Jonathan Shaw  

 Equiknoxx — VF Live: Equiknoxx (The Vinyl Factory)

There’s nothing like a little roots music to get you through the sweltering summer heat, and this early July mix by Gavin “Gavsborg” Blair (half of forward-thinking Kingston dancehall unit Equiknoxx) was a personal favorite of the past month for hitting that spot. The group tends to throw curveballs at the genres it tinkers with, and Blair’s mix highlights why they’re so good at it: The crates run deep. Spanning everything from legendary producer and DJ Prince Jazzbo to in-house music fresh out the box (e.g., “Did Not Make This For Jah_9” was released in late May), Blair sets the mood and educates you along the way. Like everything else these cats do (and that includes the NTS show — support your independent radio station!), it’s hard not to give the highest recommendation.

Patrick Masterson  

 Ezra Feinberg — Recumbent Speech (Related States)

Recumbent Speech by Ezra Feinberg

Knowing that Ezra Feinberg is a practicing psychoanalyst, it’s tempting to read meaning into the name of his second solo album. But be careful to think twice about the meaning you perceive and ask yourself, is it the product of Feinberg on the couch or your own projection? His choice to name one of the record’s six instrumentals (there are voices, but no words) “Letter To My Mind” certainly suggests that there’s an internal dialogue at work, but the music feels most like a layered deployment of good ideas than an exchange of intrapsychic forces. The synthesizers shimmer and cycle like something from a mid-1970s Cluster record, resting upon a pillow of vibraphone and electric piano tones, which in turn billow under the influence of undulating layers of drums. Feinberg’s guitar leads are bright and pithy, like something Pat Metheny might come up with if he knew he was going to have to pay a steep price for every note he played. Ah, but there I go, projecting an implication of adversary process where there may be none. Might it be that Feinberg, having spent a full work week immersed in the psychic conflicts of others, wants to lay back on the couch and exhale? If so, this album is an apt companion.

Bill Meyer  

 Honey Radar — Sing the Snow Away: The Chunklet Years (Chunklet)

Sing the Snow Away: The Chunklet Years by Honey Radar

Jason Henn of Honey Radar has a solid claim at being his generation’s Bob Pollard, a prolific, absurdist songwriter, who tosses off hooky melodies as if channeling them from the spirit world. His least polished material glints with melody hidden beneath banks of fuzz, whispery and fragile on records, but surprisingly muscular in his rocking live shows. This 28-song compilation assembles the singles, splits, EPs and bonus tracks Henn recorded for Chunklet between 2015 and the present; it would be a daunting amount of material except that it goes down like cotton candy, sweet, airy, colorful and gone before you know it. Like the Kinks, Henn has a way of making strident rock and roll hooks sound wistful and dreamy. In “Lilac Pharmacy,” guitar lines rip and buck and roar, but from a distance, hardly disrupting Henn’s placid murmur. “Medium Mary Todd” ratchets up the tension a bit, with a tangled snarl of lick and swagger, but the vocals edge towards quiet whimsy a la Sic Alps; a second version runs a bit hotter, rougher and more electric, while a third, recorded at WFMU, gives an inkling of the Honey Radar concert experience. A couple of fine covers — of the Fall’s early rant “Middle Class Revolt” and of the Monkees rarity “Wind-Up Man”— suggest the fine, loamy soil that Henn’s art grows out of, while alternate versions of half a dozen tracks hint at the various forms his ideas can take. It’s a wonderful overview of Honey Radar so far, though let’s hope it’s not a career retrospective. Henn has a bunch of records left to make yet if he wants to edge out Pollard.

Jennifer Kelly

 Iron Wigs — Your Birthday’s Cancelled (Mello Music Group)

Your Birthday's Cancelled by IRON WIGS

As an adjective, “goofy” had gotten a bad rep in hip hop. Anything that is unusual, inventive and not in line with “keeping it real” is immediately stigmatized as goofy, weird, nerdy and bad. Iron Wigs is goofy but hold the pejorative connotations. Chicago representatives Vic Spencer and Verbal Kent team up here with Sonnyjim from the UK to do some wild rhyming. They collaborated before, but Your Birthday’s Cancelled is a complete, fully fleshed project, masterfully executed from start to finish. Instead of the usual gun busting you get a fist in the ribs. Instead of drug slinging, a blunt to activate your rhymes. Each member of the group has a distinctive delivery which makes you to listen carefully for every verse, no skipping. It’s a relief to listen to rap artists who don’t pretend they’re out in the streets while they’re at home enjoying a favorite TV series. The standout track here is “Bally Animals & Rugbys” with Roc Marciano dropping by for a verse.

Ray Garraty  

 Levinson / Mahlmeister — Shores (Trouble In Mind)

Shores by levinson / mahlmeister

Jamie Levinson and Donny Mahlmeister’s Bandcamp page indicates that they’re based in Oak Park, a suburb of Chicago. This goes further towards explaining their association with Trouble in Mind Records, which is located in the same county, than their music, which brings to mind something much further north. The duo’s music is mostly electronic, with modular synthesizers setting the pulse and sweeping the pitch spectrum while lap steel guitar adds flourishes and a shruti box thickens the textures. The album is split into two, with each track — one is named “Ascend,” the other “Release” — taking up one side of a 50-minute cassette. The first side trundles steadily onwards, and the second seems to bask in a glow to that never totally fades. Since there’s no “Descend,” it’s easy to imagine this music sound tracking a drive into the Canadian north, the journey unspooling under a sky that never darkens, its progress towards Hudson Bay unhindered by other traffic or turns in the road. Perhaps that’s just one listener’s fantasy of easy social distancing and escape from the present’s grim digital glare into a retro-futurist, analog dream. But in dreams we’re free to fly without being seated next to some knucklehead with his mask over his eyes instead of his mouth, so dream on, dreamers. This tape is volume one of the Explorers Series, Trouble in Mind’s projected program of limited edition cassette releases.

Bill Meyer

 Klara Lewis — Ingrid (Editions Mego)

Klara Lewis’s latest recording shows a narrowing of focus. Previously she seemed to be trying ideas and methods on for size, investigating ambient electronics or hinting at pop melody without completely committing. Given the approach to music modeled by her father, Graham Lewis of Wire and Dome, she probably does not feel the need to do just one thing, and that’s a healthy angle if one wants to stay interested and flexible. But there’s also something to be said for really digging into an idea, and that’s what she has done here. Ingrid is a one-track, one-sided 12.” Burrowing further into one-ness, it is made from one looped cello phrase, which gets filtered and distorted on each pass. The effect suggests decay, but not so much the gradual transformation of a William Basinski piece as the pitiless abrasion of a woodworker going over a plank with sander. The combination of repetition and coarsening hits a spot closer to one that Tony Conrad might reach, and that’s an itch worth scratching.

Bill Meyer

Luis Lopes Humanization 4tet — Believe, Believe (Clean Feed)

The cruel economics of contemporary creative music-making favor an ensemble like Humanization 4tet. At a minimum, the filial Texan rhythm section of Stefan and Aaron Gonzalez (drums and bass respectively) and Lisbon-based duo of Rodrigo Amado (tenor saxophone) and Luís Lopes can each count on having the other half of a band on the other side of the Atlantic. But any project that’s on its fourth record in a dozen years has more going for it than the chance to save on plane tickets. For the Portuguese musicians, it’s an opportunity to feel an unabashedly high-energy force at their backs, as well as a chance to drink from a deep well of harmolodic blues. And for the Gonzalez brothers, it’s the reward of being the absolute right guys for the job; it has to be a gas to know that the heft they put into their swing is so deeply appreciated. While Lopes’ name remains up front, everyone contributes compositions, and everyone gives their all on every tune.

Bill Meyer  

 Joanna Mattrey — Veiled (Relative Pitch)

Veiled by Joanna Mattrey

This solo CD, which closely follows a collaborative cassette on Astral Spirits, is only the second recording with Joanna Mattrey’s name on the spine. But Mattrey is no newcomer. The New England Conservatory-trained violist has been playing straight and pop gigs for a while. If you caught Chance the Rapper on Saturday Night Live, Cuddle Magic with strings or a host of classical gigs around New York City, you’ve seen her. But if black dress and heels gigs pay her bills, improvised music nourishes her heart. And if sounds raw enough to scrape the roof of the world nourish yours, this album is new food. The premise of Veiled is finding veins of concealed beauty concealed, and that search impels Mattrey to tune her viola to sound like a horse-haired Tuvan fiddle, clamp objects to the strings and blast her signal through some satisfyingly filthy amplification. And whether it’s a slender tune or a complex texture, the reward is always there.

Bill Meyer

  Angel Olsen — “Whole New Mess” single (Jagjaguwar)

Everyone processes a breakup differently (though, to be fair, that’s probably less true now than ever). For Angel Olsen in 2018, it meant retreating to The Unknown, a century-old church in Anacortes, Washington, that Mount Eerie’s Phil Elverum and producer Nicholas Wilbur made into a recording studio. What ultimately came from those sessions was All Mirrors, but Whole New Mess is a chance to revisit that album (fully nine of these 11 songs are ones you’ve heard before; only the title-track and “Waving, Smiling” are new) in a more intimate framework — just Angel, a guitar, a mic and her reverberant heartache. The most cynical view to be taken here is that it’s a stopgap capitalizing on people’s vulnerability amid a pandemic quarantine, but it could also be a corrective for the bloat of All Mirrors, a record I listened to once and haven’t thought about since. Late Björkian excess doesn’t suit her nearly as well as the light touch delivered herein, and your interest will similarly hinge on how much Whole New Mess sounds like the old one.

Patrick Masterson   

 Ono — Red Summer (American Dreams)

Red Summer by ONO

Ono, the long-running noise-punk-poetry-protest project headed by P Michael Grego and travis, tackles the Red Summer of 1919, evoking the brutal race riots that erupted as soldiers returned from World War I. During that summer, conflicts raged from Chicago to the deep south, as white supremacists rioted against newly empowered returning Black veterans and an increased number of Black factory workers employed in America’s northern factories. Ono captures the violence—and its links to contemporary race-based conflicts—in an abstract and visionary style, with travis declaiming against an agitated froth of avant garde sound. “A Dream of Sodomy” lurches and rolls in funk-punk bravado, as travis declaims all the nightmarish scenarios that haunt his nocturnal hours, while “Coon” natters rhythmically across a fever-lit foundation of hand-drums, mosquito buzz and flute. “26 June 1919” wanders through a blasted, rioting landscape, sounds buzzing and pinging and roaring around travis’ fractured poetry. “White men, red men, Manchester town, send ‘em home, Oklahoma, send ‘em home, in a Black man house, send ‘em home, send ‘em home,” he chants, ominously, vertiginously. The center isn’t holding, for sure. The disc closes with the uneasy truce of “Sycamore Trees,” where steam blasts of synthesizer sound rush up and around travis’ vibrating, basso verses about meeting under the sycamore trees, a metaphor like the blues and gospel and nearly all Black music is full of metaphor about reuniting in a better place. Powerful.

Jennifer Kelly

 Julian Taylor — The Ridge (Howling Turtle, Inc.)

Singer-songwriter Julian Taylor does the little things well. That's not to say that he doesn't do the obvious things well, too, on his latest release The Ridge. His easy voice fits his songs, letting autobiography come with comfortable phrasing. As a writer, he tends toward the straightforward, avoiding extended metaphors or oblique references. The title track considers a particular form of life, and Taylor sticks to the tangible, singing about the stable, “Shovel manure, clean their beds, and prepare the feed for the day.” Taylor's songs make sense of the immediate world and relationships around him, but they avoid woolgathering. The album feels a bit removed from the current climate, but that's no complaint when Taylor's developed a welcoming place to visit. It isn't always easy here, but it's always companionable.

But back to those little things. Each song has carefully detailed orchestration and production. The record goes down easy whether tending toward James Taylor, Cat Stevens or something closer to country, and much of that easiness comes from the precise placement of every note. Burke Carroll's pedal steel, for instance, never exists for its own sake, but to serve the lyric that Taylor sings. The album contains enough space to feel like a rural Canadian ridge, with details drawn into to support Taylor's direct stories. The Ridge could easily go unnoticed (unobtrusiveness not being a highly rewarded trait), but its subtlety and care make it worth taking your boots off and sitting down for a minute.

Justin Cober-Lake  

 Various Artists — For a Better Tomorrow (Garden Portal)

For A Better Tomorrow by Various Artists

Compilation albums loom large in the American Primitive Guitar realm. Takoma, Tompkins Square and Locust all had larger ambitions than merely offering a sampling of wares, and to them, Garden Portal says, “hold my beer. I’ve got some collecting and playing to do.” For A Better Tomorrow started out as a Bernie Sanders fundraising endeavor. But when Bernie bailed and COVID-19 came on the scene, Garden Portal pivoted to support Athens Mutual Aid Network, an umbrella organization that coordinates aid to the underserved in this trying time. But in addition to good works, there’s some good work going on here. Not all of it is guitar-centric, but even the tracks that aren’t are close enough to the strings and heart template of the aforementioned parties to merit consideration under the same rubric. Joseph Allred’s been ultra-productive recently, so it’s actually helpful to be reminded of the spirit that infuses his playing by listening to it one track at a time. Rob Noyes’ “Diminished” takes the listener on a deep dive into the construction of sentiment and sound. And Will Csorba’s Pelt-like blast of fiddle drone, “Requiem for Ociel Guadalupe Martinez,” will put your hair up high enough to make that self-inflicted quarantine do a bit easier to execute.

Bill Meyer

  Various Artists — The Storehouse Presents (The Storehouse)

The Storehouse Presents by The Storehouse

The coronavirus pandemic put the brakes on many things. You doubtless have your own list of loss, but for the proprietors of The Storehouse, the catalog of things kissed goodbye directly corresponds to their endeavor’s inventory of reasons to be. Over the past few years, the Storehouse has invited audiences out to a West Michigan farmhouse to enjoy a potluck meal and a concert played by some musicians of note. If there had been no lockdown, listeners could have enjoyed the Sun Ra Arkestra last April. Instead, no one’s playing, and no one’s getting paid, so the Storehouse has compiled this set of live and exclusive studio tracks to sell on Bandcamp in order to benefit the musicians and the Music Maker Relief Foundation. The cause, is good, but so are the tunes. Want to hear Steve Gunn and William Tyler in sympathetic orbit? Or Joan Shelley pledging her love? Or the first hints of Mind Over Mirrors’ new direction? Step right this way, preferably on one of 2020’s first Fridays.

Bill Meyer

 Z-Ro — Rohammad Ali (1 Deep Entertainment / Empire)

On one of his previous tracks, Z-Ro admitted that he’s basically just writing the same song over and over again (that’s how meta he is now, writing songs on writing songs). While he exaggerated a bit, he was not that far from the truth. In the last half dozen years he’s been writing the same three or four songs in various combinations, reconfigurations and forms. Rohammad Ali follows the same template: haters hate him, but he’s OK and is counting his money. Multiply this by 17, and here is the album. Despite this self-cannibalizing (lots of poets did that), Z-Ro with every new album sounds fresh and far from tired. The self-repeats just fuel him. Rohammad Ali has only one rap guest, and it’s Shaquille O’Neal whose rap career didn’t jump off in the 1990s. A lack of guests only proves that Z-Ro can self-sustain without support from the outside. The only thing from the outside he needs is hate.

Ray Garraty

[shirtlesssammy]

1x11: Scarecrow

Welcome to our harvest themed hiatus episode. Hope everyone enjoyed their freakin’ pie this week!

Burkitsville, Indiana

Sixteen Years One Year Ago

A young couple leave a friendly town after the townsfolk load them up with pie and gas for the car. “Everyone in this town is so nice,” remarks the wraith young woman. The man adds, “Yeah, what’s the catch?” The townsfolk’s daughter niece notes that the dude has a cool arm tattoo. 

Once on the road, the couple’s car dies. I love how the woman asks what happened and the dude is just ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ . They head into an orchard looking for help. They come across a scarecrow. 

The woman is a bit freaked out, and I would be too if I saw the damn thing move! They hear strange noises and start running. The camera work gets grainy so you know we’re in scarytime land. The couple gets separated. The woman runs alone until she finds the man again -faceless and dead on the ground. She screams and then the now loose and animate scarecrow is upon her! 

*John Winchester is a Horrible Father Alert*

Sam wakes to a ringing cell phone. He answers it and it’s John. He’s all evasive and apologetic about disappearing. He’s on the trail of the thing that killed their mom. It’s a demon! They have to stop chasing him. It’s not safe. Sam refuses. He wants answers. John jumps into drill sergeant father mode and Sam continues to balk. 

Dean grabs his phone, AND MY GOD, watching Jensen transform silently while Dean listens to John talk is magnificent. He just falls right into order, writes down the names of three missing couples, and the brothers hit the road. 

*Sam is driving Alert*

Ok, hold the phone, Dean’s giving backstory to the missing couples. They’ve gone missing every year in the second week of April. I --what? I should probably watch the whole episode before recapping, and I haven’t seen this episode in years and don’t really remember the secret. There were apples all over the orchard implying it’s the fall...hmm. Dean’s amazed at the level of research John did to figure out something was happening. He calls him “a master” and I just die a little knowing how very little John knows. 

Sam stops the car and tells Dean that they’re not going to Indiana; they’re going to California. 

John is on the trail of what killed Mary and Jess, and Sam wants to be there for it. Dean insists that John gave them an order (I’m having serious John/Chuck and Soldier Dean/Free Will feelings right now, give me a moment). Whew, Sam pulls the ‘My girlfriend just died six months ago’ card and insists that Dean can’t know how important this is to him. Dean continues to be a good little soldier though. Sam gets out of the car and tells Dean that he’s going to California. See ya! Dean tries pulling what I can only imagine the same move John pulled many times over the years, and tells Sam that he’ll leave him on the side of the road. That’s what Sam wants! Dean leaves. 

Oof, there’s a lot to unpack with that fight. I’ll just throw up @mittensmorgul​ post. I’m just so very happy to see how far Dean’s come. 

Dean pulls into the town in Indiana. He meets Scotty, owner of the local cafe. He introduces himself as John Bonham. “Isn’t that the drummer for Led Zeppelin?” How this hasn’t happened more over the years is beyond me. 

Dean asks about the missing people and Scotty dismisses him quickly. They don’t get a lot of strangers around the town. Dean tries flirting with the guy but the man is a stone wall. 

*Meg Alert*

Sam, meanwhile, continues to walk down the road hoping to see a passing car. He finds a young woman just sitting and listening to music instead. Like, wtf is Meg doing? Sam, how is this not suspicious activity to you? Anyway, a truck pulls up and offers to take only the lady. 

Dean asks at the general store about his “friends”. Emily, the young woman there, remembers them. Dean heads off to where the couple was last seen driving. Dean’s driving along and his EMF starts to go nuts. He’s right by the orchard and walks in to investigate. How is this April? Anyway, Dean finds the scarecrow and we’re gifted with the now iconic line: “Dude, you fugly.” 

He takes a closer look at the scarecrow and sees the tattoo on the arm. SMART, OBSERVANT BOY. 

Dean heads back to town. He stops to get gas and talk to Emily. (Sidenote: Can all guest stars wear a necklace with their names on it so I’m not scrambling to figure out names every week? Thx.) Emily tells Dean how she came to the town when she was 13. It’s the middle of nowhere, but she loves it. This town seems blessed compared to the surrounding towns. Dean’s not suspicious at all. Dean asks about the scarecrow. Emily admits that it’s always just been there. Detective Dean also finds out a couple is in town waiting on their car to get repaired. 

Sam is dealing with the nightmare that is the American Car Culture and lack of decent mass transit across our expansive 50 states. He runs into Meg again. This time she introduces herself. 

Dean heads to Scotty’s to find the couple (and eat pie.) Boy does he need to work on his casual chit chat. Scotty is suspicious AF at Dean and tells him to leave them alone. Dean doesn’t and even offers to fix their car for them so they can hit the road sooner. They decline his offer, and like, I get it, but HOW DARE they accuse Dean of not being a mechanic. 

Dean tries to warn them again but just comes off as creepy and they brush him off. Dean laments the lack of Sam’s puppy dog face, and then Scotty calls the local law enforcement on him. They literally chase him out of town. Lol. 

Meg and Sam bond over a romantic bag of Cheetos and some beer. She’s on the run from family expectations too! Looks like they’re made for each other, friends. (This is the nicest damn bus station I’ve ever seen. It has NAPKIN holders! And tables! And beer!)

While Sam’s enjoying a meet-cute, the couple from the restaurant clutch each other in the apple orchard, the scarecrow in hot pursuit, when Dean appears. He shouts at them to run back to their car and shoots fruitless holes in the scarecrow. The moment they all arrive back on the road, the scarecrow disappears. 

On his phone, Sam gets the hunt recap from Dean while he watches his new friend sleep at the station. Dean figures that he’s dealing with a god because the killing happens once a year, it’s always couples, and “you should see the locals. The way they treated this couple. Fattenin’ ‘em up like a Christmas turkey.” It’s ritual sacrifice, baby. While Dean’s talking, he’s driving out to a local community college to meet with a professor there and get some information about what kind of god he might be fighting. He tells Sam that he’s proud of him for defying their father and going his own way in life. Dean wishes he could do the same. To quote Boris, excuse me while I fling myself into a volcano. 

Dean chats with the Cigarette Smoking Man a professor in the nicest damn community college I have ever seen. He asks about pagan lore and the origin of the residents of Burkitsville. They were Scandinavian which leads to Dean’s next pointed question: he’s looking for a Scandinavian god who might live in an apple orchard. They pull down an ancient book of lore - the kind that is standard issue in every community college classroom - and start paging through looking for a “woods” god. 

Dean spots a creepy scarecrow drawing. The description lists the scarecrow as a Vanir, a norse god of protection and prosperity which keeps villages from harm. Worshippers built effigies of the Vanir in their fields, and some practiced human sacrifice. They’re tied to a sacred tree. Dean, my best and direct friend, asks, “So what would happen if the sacred tree was torched? You think it’d kill the god?” LOL, there’s no such thing as gods, young man! Dean bids farewell to the professor and immediately gets conked out by the Burkitsville sheriff. SIGNIFICANT LOOKS™ are exchanged between the professor and sheriff.

Later, rain falls heavily on a group of older folks standing outside under umbrellas. Three of them plead with Harley, the gas station owner. His wife tells him that the trees are beginning to die. It’s the “seventh night of the cycle” and they have one more chance to appease “it.” Dun dun DUN.

For Pretty Shot Science

Cut to a cellar door opening. The cadre of elderly conspirators hauls a tearful Emily down to be trapped alongside Dean. Her aunt comfortingly tells her that it’s for “the common good.” (This REALLY makes me want to rewatch Hot Fuzz again!)

At the bus station, Sam and Meg’s bus finally arrives. But Sam’s got a problem. His brother hasn’t answered his phone for the last three hours. He’s got to go to Burkitsville! “You’re running back to your brother? The guy you ran away from?” Meg implores Sam to go to California with her, but Sam tells her he can’t. His family needs him. 

In the cellar, Emily freaks out about her newfound knowledge of a murderous scarecrow god and her accomplice relatives. Dean describes human sacrifice as “classier” than plain murder and…Dean Bean. More helpfully, he tries to put together a game plan with Emily. He asks her about an old tree - one the locals might treat with respect. Emily does know about a tree that the locals call “the First Tree.” Subtle naming, dear locals!

They’re seized from the cellar and tied in the orchard as evening approaches. Emily pleads for her life, but her aunt tells her that family bonds aren’t enough to save her. “That’s what sacrifice means. Giving up something you love for the greater good.” (I’ll just...look directly into the camera.)

Much later, night’s fallen and Dean is still working on a plan to free them both. Something insidious approaches and….wait, it’s Sam! Dean’s practically giddy to see his brother, who stole a car to get to town in time. What a good, thieving bean! Dean tells Sam to keep an eye on the scarecrow because it “could come alive any minute.”

In classic horror movie fashion, Sam asks, “What scarecrow?”

The scarecrow’s on the loose, but our trio is finally free in the orchard. They’re prevented from escaping by the four town elders penning them in with shotguns, however. Harley tries to convince Emily to give up (and die) when the scarecrow’s sickle slices through him, killing him. It drags Stacy and Harley away, having claimed its yearly couple at last. 

The next morning Sam, Dean, and Emily walk through the orchard with a can of fuel. They find the “First Tree” which has runes carved into its bark. Sam douses it with gasoline and Emily lights the tree on fire. Look at this wholesome tale of youth dismantling a toxic system!

Back at the station I finally get a good look at the bus company. It’s called “American Freedom Coach Lines.” LOL, if you need me I’ll be picking myself up from the floor after being hit by this symbolic brick. 

Emily boards a bus headed towards Boston. Dean gleefully anticipates the murder-town’s slow, god-less demise before asking Sam about his plans. “I still wanna find Dad. And you’re still a pain in the ass. But, Jess and Mom…they’re both gone. Dad is god knows where. You and me. We’re all that’s left. So, if we’re gonna see this through, we’re gonna do it together.” Can I get a yee-haw?!

Meanwhile, Meg’s hitched a ride with Creepy Driver Number 2 and suggests “pulling over” when he asks her where she wants to go. He pulls a little way off the road and she takes out a silver bowl. “I’ve gotta make a call,” she tells him before slicing his throat open and filling the bowl with blood. She stirs it, mutters an incantation, and then asks the bowl why she wasn’t allowed to just kill Sam and Dean. Someone clearly gives her orders and she says, rather ominously, “Yes, Father.”

Natasha: This is one of my favorite episodes! What’s not to love about creepy scarecrows and murderous fertility/prosperity rituals?

____________________________

I Hope These Quotes Were Frickin’ Worth It:

I’ve given you an order

I don’t understand the blind faith you have in the man

Dude, you fugly

Nice tat

My brother could give you this puppy dog look and you’d buy right into it

Indiana isn’t really known for its Pagan worship

I hope your apple pie is freakin’ worth it!

Hold me, Sam. That was beautiful.

____________________________

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[austerlitzborodinoleipzig]

Official Tolkien Secret Santa

Here’s my contribution for the Secret Santa, for @aowyn who requested something about Celebrimbor/Annatar.  @officialtolkiensecretsanta

I’m really sorry for the delay. I thought I had the post queued. Turns out it wasn’t, and then I somehow forget to take my laptop, along with my bag, with me to the country...

Anyway, after many adventures, here’s the fic. I hope you enjoy it. I really liked your prompt. I don’t usually write for Celebrimbor, or Sauron, or both, so I enjoyed the challenge. I plan to post it on Ao3 as soon as I get my laptop back (probably next week). Not the happiest thing to read around Christmas, (when is Celebrimbor/Annatar ever happy?), but I tried to tone it down a bit. 

Happy Holidays!

Copper 

There’s something to be said about the colour of copper. That rancid, acid smell that would cut through cloth and leather, and get into your nose, under your fingernails and coat your hair. It’s harsh, it’s unpleasant. It’s familiar. It’s honest.

******

“There’s something not quite honest to him”

Gil-Galad is too much of a diplomat to outright say dishonest.

“I know you admire him. And rightly so, for he is the finest craftsman I have ever seen but there is a cruelty in him... Celebrimbor, be careful.”

Then Celebrimbor would come to him, take his hand, say “I know”, and kiss him. “I know your sufferings. I know your doubts. I know what hides behind that face. I know who’s behind that posture. Annatar, the Master of Gifts. I know and I love you all the same. You don’t have to be perfect with me. And that thing you were working on, it doesn’t matter if or when you get it. In a week, a month, a year. Maybe never, and you know what? You don’t have to. I’ll love you all the same. But I trust you, I have faith in you, and tomorrow you’ll get it. I know.”

******

Celebrimbor has to agree. He has seen Annatar being cruel, cold and cutting. Has seen how ferociously he strikes the anvil. Has seen him crying tears of rage. Has seen him lost, broken, in the throes of despair. Celebrimbor has lost the count of how many times he has found him sleepless. Hungry and agitated. Curled in a corner, a small metal trinket in his hands. Polishing, filing the imperfections, correcting an invisible flaw again and again and again, until there was nothing left of his work but a pile of grainy steely dust at his feet. Annatar would then throw his hands in the air, and a ferocious glare to Celebrimbor, as if to say: “I don’t care. I’m not phased. Everything’s going according to the plan.” Which made Celebrimbor laugh, and want to cry a little because he knew what it was like when the blessed perfection eluded you, when your mind had tricked you, or the other way round, and you were left with your failing body and your crude, inadequate hands.

******

“You still have not given me one good reason, why I should trust him.”

“I don’t know what to tell you Galadriel. You’re the only one that doesn’t, and nothing I can say will make you change your mind. “

“Not the only one. Gil-Galad is as wary as I am. Celeborn certainly doesn’t trust him.”

Celeborn is paranoid, and feels uncomfortable having his wife live so far from him, and so closes to dwarves. Why you would continue to follow his advice when he’s so obviously prejudiced is beyond me, Celebrimbor thought. He kept his mouth shut.

“He is from the Valar, and has indeed, bestowed us many gifts.”

“No he is not.”

“You would refuse the gifts of the Valar? Oh, Artanis. I thought you had outgrown that.”

******

“No he is not from the Valar”

“He isn’t” conceded Celebrimbor. “He is like us. On our side. As much from the Valar as we are. Trust me Galadriel. “

It smelt of burnt copper and iron in every room. His eyes were burning. His back was aching his lungs were scorched by the furnace in the workshop. He could taste the iron on his tongue. His blood and Annatar’s whenever he could draw it in their frenzied unions. They were working. Together. And Celebrimbor dared dreaming again.

“I wish this moment would never end” he confessed late at night when they were both safely ensconced in their bed.

“It doesn’t have to” answered Annatar, wrapping himself around his lover.

“When the world was younger and beautiful and innocent still, I would have believed you.”

Celebrimbor smiled and kissed Annatar’s forehead. I wish I’d known you back then.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me then”, mumbled Annatar.

Valinor was the only subject they never spoke of. It was too painful for the both of them.

“I wish I could keep them. All those moments sleeping away through my fingertips.”

“I must confess there are times when I dream of extracting that pleasure, the pleasure we share together, and setting in a jewel. Like those butterflies sealed in these drops of amber Narvi gave you. Forever there for me to remember. Your face. Your voice calling me. Your arms clutching me.”

Annatar grabbed Celebrimbor hands, intertwining their fingers.

“Time passes. But not for everyone. Not for us. We won’t let it. Think about our work. We can be the gardeners of this world. Keeping it safe. Pure. Preserved.”

“Feänor managed to capture the essence of the light of the Trees. Look what happened. And I am not my grandfather.”

“You’re not. You’re better than him. And your work will surpass even my gifts.”

Celebrimbor tried to argue and was silenced by a kiss.

“You will heal us all”

Celebrimbor remained silent; his mouth tightly shut.

******

“I hoped to find you there” said Galadriel.

Alone was the unspoken word. She spoke very slowly, and very kindly, as if to a child.

“You have to be honest Celebrimbor. With yourself, if not with us. You know who Annatar is. You’ve seen more of him than we have.”

“He’s a liar. He could not have come from Valinor. I don’t have to know him to say the truth. There’s something about him. He is too far removed from the Undying Lands.”

“You’re right. You don’t know anything about him.” And Celebrimbor exploded

“The smell of copper. Turns out, it was our own smell all along. The reaction between to metal and the oils produced by our skin makes the copper a conductor for our body odours.”

“Yes I know he’s lying about his past! Yes I know he was on the other side, during the Great War.”

“The other side! Celebrimbor, listen to yourself! It wasn’t about sides. It was everyone who ever wanted to live against the Enemy!”

“I know all of that. I’ve thought about it. I know that a being like him, a Maia could hardly have been just a soldier, just one of the many heads of the Enemy’s legions. I know all of that and more. And so what? Here I am! Working with him. Sharing my bread and my roof with him. Sharing my dreams and my hopes. You think you know him so well, don’t you? You think you know us all so well! Mighty

Galadriel, wise beyond her years. Truly, Melian’s worthy heir. Tell me do the Sindar know about your unofficial title at Gil-Galad’s court? Has Elrond ever said anything about it? So what if he has done unspeakable things? Haven’t we all? Who are we, Noldor, to judge? You’re not the only one that’s fleeing her past. But you can have a second chance, and the others cannot?”

“Celebrimbor. You are of my blood. And because of that… And despite that, I love you. I would help you if I could. If you allowed me to.”

“Of my blood. I am of Feänor’s blood. And yet you will tolerate me. You will have me at your table. You will praise my craft because I have repudiated my father and my lineage. You trusted me. Did you ever regret it?”

“Oh Celebrimbor! We never did. I never did. “

“I can be many things. But I will not be a judge. Nor an executioner. I don’t have the right. And I wouldn’t want it. I know him. And he has changed Galadriel. He’s not the being he once was. You have not seen it but believe me when I say he’s atoning. And he is going to redeem himself. You just wait to see it.”

Galadriel’s puzzled expression had disappeared, replaced by one of infinite sadness.

“No one doubts you. Celebrimbor. We only doubt him. I do not want you to be hurt. No one will ever blame you for being wrong. “

There were tears running down Celebrimbor’s face.

“He can be saved, Galadriel. I know he can. I was pardoned. And if I was, he can be too. And I will help him. I cannot be the only one redeemed. And he is just like me.”

Galadriel took her cousin’s hands and kissed them.

“No, he is not.”

******

Her name was Lôminzil. She was one the most promising craftsmen of Numenor. Along with ten other younglings, she had been sent to Eregion, to train under the Gwaith-I-Mirdain.

“That’s astonishing isn’t it?”

Celebrimbor liked to young woman. She had the spark. She was eager to learn, and eager to train.

“What is?”